


In Deep

by FandomN00b



Series: Dread Moon [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Anders deserves a cute boyfriend who adores him, M/M, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, but still lots of fluff, ok so this got a bit more angsty than I intended
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2020-10-26 21:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20748680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomN00b/pseuds/FandomN00b
Summary: Summary of prior events inDread Moon: Hawke and her friends tracked Anders down nearly five years after they parted ways following the Mage Rebellion. They somehow talked him into helping them as they searched for a missing Dorian Pavus along with their Inquisition allies. They were ultimately successful, and the time together allowed Anders and the others to repair some of their broken relationships and begin to heal. But when Dorian's elven bodyguard, Alarion, a former spy for the mysterious Agents of Fen'Harel, was arrested and taken back to Skyhold to be held accountable for spying, kidnapping, and endangering Dorian's life, Anders did something impulsive (shocking, I know) and rescued him (with some help from his friends).NowAnders and Alarion are fleeing to the Deep Roads, in search ofSolona Amell and her rebel group of Wardenswho are working on finding a 'cure' for their tainted blood, but they won't get there without having to face a number of other people from Anders' (and Alarion's) past.





	1. Well-Connected

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fluffy spin-off following these two after [Dread Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19196272/chapters/45634780). If you're curious about Dorian and Alarion's past relationship, or how Anders and Fenris and Merrill became best friends and rescued Alarion together because THAT'S WHAT FRIENDS DO, or why Cole started tagging along with Anders everywhere he went, or why Justice and Anders got separated, or how Alarion was basically in love with Anders from the moment he set eyes on him...

Anders and Alarion found the tunnels beneath the Frostbacks easily enough, the same system of old tunnels that had helped the residents of Haven escape from Corypheus’ attack over a year ago, and that Anders had once stumbled upon during one of his attempted escapes across Lake Calenhad.

But these weren’t the Deep Roads. They were crude, human-made access routes just under the surface of the mountains, made for getting people and supplies to and from the mountain settlements when the normal routes were buried under fifteen feet of snow. There were dead ends and collapsed or abandoned sections and tunnels dug into tunnels that seemed to want to lead them in circles.

“How did you come to be so well-connected to two of the most important women in Thedas?” Alarion asked, hoping to strike up a conversation that didn’t revolve around Anders fretting over him or apologizing for something absurd like the direction of the wind or the fact that snow was cold or that it was dark underground.

Anders had been pacing back and forth across the narrow tunnel for the past five minutes, muttering to himself about which of the three passages in front of them they should take.

Why did he think he could do this? He’d promised to get Alarion somewhere safe, but he was beginning to fear they’d be stuck in these dark, grimy, claustrophobic tunnels forever. Well, until they starved to death. It was then, of course, that he noticed an old pile of bones kicked into an alcove carved out of the tunnel wall. He tried to shudder away from old memories of isolation and darkness and hunger that threatened to undo him now.

Anders turned to face Alarion apologetically, but Alarion just smiled back at him.

“Sorry, what?” Anders stammered.

Alarion shook his head and laughed. He recognized the same sort of desperate urgency in Anders that he had felt when he and Dorian were being hunted by the Venatori. A week ago, maybe? It felt like months. An enormous weight had been lifted from him, though, with all the recent revelations and their rescue from the Fade. Months of lying, pretending, struggling with his own conflicting feelings for the man he was meant to be spying on for some mysterious network of elven agents, and then panic when he realized he had actually put them both in danger outside of his control...all of the hiding was over now, thank the Creators, and Alarion felt like he could actually breathe.

He still felt a little guilty, he supposed, for trying to keep so many secrets for so long, and for running away. But Dorian had made it clear that he no longer wished for Alarion’s protection or his companionship, no longer needed it, even, and in a way, though it still stung a little, that was sort of a relief, too. He knew Dorian was in good hands, anyway, with Bull and his friends in the Inquisition.

And then, there was Anders...well, he was just kind of magnificent, wasn’t he?

Alarion’s hazel eyes were beaming at him in the soft glow of the light he'd summoned at the end of his staff. Anders couldn’t imagine why, as he stood there, paralyzed, incapable of making a decision about which direction to go. All of his unbridled admiration, his smile and his laughter and his overall appreciation of just about everything Anders did, wasn’t helping him focus, but it certainly helped with the perpetual sense of doom he felt when he was left to ruminate for too long in his own head. And it did far more than Anders’ magelight could do to banish the suffocating darkness.

Alarion cleared his throat. “So...Hawke and the Hero of Ferelden...? How did you happen to meet them _both_?”

“Oh.” Anders smiled self-consciously. “I suppose it runs in the family...” he mused. “They both took pity on me, I think. Like a mangy stray, caught in the rain. You feed it, show it some kindness, and it just keeps coming around, expecting more and more with nothing to offer in return…”

“I’m sure having a skilled healer around was certainly appreciated?”

“Maybe. But I’ve no doubt they both lived to regret their lapses in judgment.”

“Wait, were you and Hawke ever…?”

“_I_ was...mildly infatuated with her," he confessed. "She was brash and sarcastic, but understanding, and fiercely loyal. Totally reckless, of course. And willing to help me during a particularly desperate time in my life. Several of them, actually. And she never judged us for...judged _me_ for merging with Justice.”

Anders suddenly realized he had never really thanked Hawke for all that she had done for him. After the Chantry explosion, their friendship had felt completely broken, as ruined as the Chantry itself, and the bitterness of their arguments had left little room for gratitude.

She’d felt betrayed. All of them had, except maybe Merrill or Isabela, who both seemed to have completely different standards for what constituted ‘betrayal.’ But Hawke most of all, because she had always been his biggest advocate whenever the others had doubted him. She had insisted she believed in him, in his cause, even when he had his own doubts. But she had a hard time overlooking the fact that he’d gone behind her back, outright lied to her, even, instead of asking her directly to help him. That was the greatest crime he could have committed, in her mind. _He_ insisted he’d done it to protect her and the rest of their friends. But that, obviously, was never going to sit well with Marian “I was born with two knives in my tiny baby fists so let’s go stab some bad guys” Hawke.

“My feelings for her were unrequited, but that didn’t stop me from using up as much of her kindness as she could spare...until it eventually ran out.”

“Well, she seems to have forgiven you.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Though I suppose that is actually Fenris’ influence…” which, now that he thought about it, was certainly an unexpected shift in the group’s complicated dynamics.

“What about her cousin?”

“Solona and I were friends in the Circle. My magic manifested rather late, and I wasn’t brought in until I was 12 or 13...I don’t remember, exactly. She, on the other hand, had been there most of her life and helped me adjust. She is the first person I remember actually laughing with at Kinloch Hold.” Anders paused, looking up at Alarion. “This is all very boring, isn’t it?”

“Not at all…” Alarion was just grateful he’d gotten him to stop fretting about the tunnels. “How did you and Solona end up as Wardens, though? I didn’t realize they recruited from the Circles.”

“Well, they don’t. Not typically. But there were signs of an approaching Blight and some trouble with several of the other mages in the Circle, and for her, it was the best opportunity to get out of that horrible place…” Anders trailed off, then. A thought unfinished as memories that he’d often kept hidden, even from Justice, came trickling back to him.

“And for you?” Alarion asked, snapping Anders back from his haunted memories for a moment.

“By that point, I was already living life as a fugitive apostate. We were reunited at the end of the Blight, while I was fleeing the Templars. Again. _Always_. That’s when I joined the Wardens. She was technically my Commander then, and completely in love with someone else, but that didn’t stop us from flirting like idiots, of course!” He laughed. “Solona is -- ”

“Of _course_?” Alarion asked in feigned offense. “I’ve been trying to get you to flirt with _me_ since the moment we met! And the most I get is a few blushy glances and then it’s back to ‘let me heal you,’ ‘let me rescue you,’ ‘I don’t expect anything in return…’ ‘sorry there’s weather…’”

Anders blushed, because of course he did. Which is why Alarion had said anything about it in the first place. “I was...um...a very different person back then. And Solona is...well, she’s _unique_. You’ll see…”

“Mmhmm…” Alarion smirked. “So we’re going back to the Wardens, then? To hide?”

“Not quite the Wardens. Not officially, anyway. Solona isn’t really one for structure and hierarchy, so her and the group of Wardens we’re looking for have all gone sort of..._rogue_.”

“Sounds like the perfect place to ‘disappear’ and start anew!”

“Yes, well...there are some perks, I suppose. But most of it is just trudging around in the dark, trying not to fall into the abyss or get eaten by spiders.”

Anders looked away from him then. “There’s something else you should know, while we’re on the topic of my past.”

“What else? You’re friends with the Divine, too?”

“Well, we _are_ acquaintances, at least. But no...not that.” Anders took a deep breath. “My last _romantic_ relationship ended ten years ago. When...I killed him.”

Alarion looked surprisingly unfazed. “Well, _mine_ ended when I knocked him unconscious and tied him to the ass-end of a horse to try and rescue him from a situation I was largely responsible for, sooo...”

Anders laughed a little. “But did you kill him?”

“I kind of wanted to for most of my life before I met him...does that count?”

“Yeah. I think so,” Anders laughed again, more earnestly this time, much to Alarion’s delight. His face was so animated, so free of worry for just a moment, and Alarion couldn’t help but stare as the echoes of his laughter faded into the tunnels. The way he wore his emotions so obviously and completely on the outside made Alarion trust him more quickly, and more thoroughly, than anyone he had ever met, more than he knew he should. But there seemed to be nothing nefarious about the mage., no hidden motives or malicious intent.

“Alright,” Alarion cleared his throat, knowing that if he stared much longer, he’d be tempted to try and kiss him. “Glad we could sort that out. Should I continue trying to flirt with you, or should we pick a passageway?”

_Right_. Anders knew they needed to head east, with Solona’s operations head-quartered near Kal’Hirol. She’d been granted some deserted stretch of the old thaig by House Helmi to do with it whatever she wanted. But should they risk passing through Orzammar and being seen, where the Deep Roads were relatively well-travelled and better maintained, or try to head above the surface in the foothills and around the bottom of Lake Calenhad before venturing down into the more deserted passages near Amgarrak? They could always just try the passage in the middle and hope it didn’t dump them off somewhere at the bottom of the lake.

"I can help..." he heard a familiar voice faintly echoing from the first tunnel. It could've just been the wind, but it was all he _really_ had to go by.

“Come on,” Anders grabbed Alarion's hand and pulled him along deeper into the tunnels beneath the Frostbacks. “Let's keep moving and I'll tell you more sad stories to try and dissuade you.”


	2. Compassionate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole and a flipped coin lead Anders and Alarion directly to the aid of Maevaris Tilani and one of her many dwarven 'cousins' at Gherlen's Pass.

Anders continued to follow the familiar half-whispered echoes that he really hoped weren’t just in his head down twisting tunnels and into spider-infested passageways. At least he and Alarion were a formidable team against them, burning their way and shooting arrows through most obstacles with ease, in spite of their dark and confining surroundings.

“For a healer, you are surprisingly good at killing things…” Alarion mused, after Anders had beaten him to incinerating a giant spider crouching in the shadows in front of them, ready to pounce before he could even finish drawing back his bow.

Anders laughed. “I wasn’t always a healer. I used to just fling fireballs at everything that upset me or got in my way. I chose to study healing as a means to…” He stared down at his hands. The same hands that could bring comfort, ease pain, and stitch together flesh from the inside out. “I guess to help me..._control_ those destructive impulses.”

“I think it’s the other way around…”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you were probably _always_ a healer.”

“No.” Anders shook his head. “The first thing I did with my magic was burn down a barn.”

“Maybe the first _noticeable_ thing. But it is in your very _nature_ to be a healer, magical or not. It’s the cruelty of the world that forced you to use your magic for other purposes.”

“I…” Anders began, but he was speechless. 

He had never thought of it quite like this. _How_ had he never thought of it like this?! It was the basis of his Manifesto, of the entire revolution, that magic wasn’t inherently _bad_, not the curse that the Chantry had tried to make it out to be, anyway, and that all the reasons given to oppress mages and ‘control magic’ were borne out of fear and misunderstandings about its nature. Yet, somehow, he had never really internalized these ideas _personally_, as they applied to his own complicated relationship with his magic and his abilities.

“Anders?”

“Yes. I...well, thank you,” he stumbled through the words, fighting back a sudden tightness in his throat. “For saying that.”

“For saying what? That you weren’t just born to be some kind of destructive fire-flinging monster?”

“Yes,” he croaked. _Maker, spare me_, he thought. _If he says another nice thing, I don’t know what I’ll do_...

“No problem,” Alarion smiled graciously. “Let me know if you ever need another reminder.”

Anders turned away from him, staring back into the dark tunnel ahead to hide his tears.

"I’m sorry...did I say something wrong?"

“Um, no.” Anders swallowed, trying to compose himself. “Sorry. I just need to concentrate…”

“On what, exactly? The dark?”

“On...it. _Him_, I guess...the spirit?”

Alarion gave him a skeptical look. “What?” 

“You haven’t been hearing him?” He asked, turning around a bit sheepishly now that the urge to throw himself sobbing into Alarion’s arms had subsided a little. “The voice we’ve been following?”

Alarion shook his head apologetically.

“Fuck. Maybe I _have_ just been imagining it.”

“_Who_?”

“Compassion..._Cole_? The spirit who’s been sort of helping us ever since...well, since before we found you and Dorian with the Nightmare in the Fade.”

Alarion just shrugged. At least _he_ didn’t seem to be disconcerted at all by the fact that Anders had been hearing voices.

“Right. You don’t have _any_ recollection of him? He was with Merrill when we returned from the Fade. He kept her safe. Kinda golden, shimmery...and a bit..._cat_-like? Sometimes he looks more like a person, a kid, and less shimmery. But...”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Of course not!” He threw his hands up in the air. “I wish Merrill were here. She would be able to tell me if I’ve been actually hearing him or if I’ve just completely lost it.”

“So we’ve been following a spirit? Of compassion? That’s better than, say, pride or fear, I suppose…?”

“Yes. Well, I hope so.”

“Which way does he suggest we go next?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t hear him anymore," Anders said, dismayed.

Alarion put a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. "This whole ‘fleeing to the Deep Roads’ thing doesn't have to all fall on you, y’know?"

"Well, are _you_ hearing any voices?"

"No, but I could flip a coin or something…"

Anders scoffed. 

"What? Not magical or weird enough for you?"

“No. I just don’t have any coins!” he laughed. “I, umm, well, I didn’t really think to bring any _money_. Not that I have any. But I probably could’ve borrowed some from Hawke or something...”

Alarion triumphantly produced a shiny gold coin from a tiny pocket on his quiver. “_This_ has always brought me luck.”

But Anders was staring curiously at Alarion’s bow. “Why did they let you keep your bow and your arrows when they put you in the dungeons?”

“I was a pretty willing prisoner.” Alarion shrugged. “I don’t think anyone really noticed them tucked neatly behind me, under my cloak...”

“You could’ve picked that lock yourself, couldn’t you?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “But it was more fun to see you try.”

Anders blushed. “And then, Dorian, of course…with his little lightning bolt trick...putting me to shame.”

“I actually taught _him_ that!”

“Do you still love him?” Anders suddenly blurted out.

Alarion’s eyes went wide. He hadn’t really expected such frank questioning from Anders, who had been so elusive about returning any of his flirtations thus far. “Love?”

“Or...whatever. You two clearly had _something_.”

“Well, it was all part of the deception at first. You know...get close...let him trust you…that sort of thing.” Alarion swallowed nervously. “And I did. And he did, even though I assumed I was merely a prop to him, too...for awhile, anyway.”

“There was real hurt between you two in that dungeon.”

“Yes, well. In spite of all of that, all my anger with his family and everything he represented, I actually grew to admire and care for him. He was at least trying to do better...impossible as it might seem for anything good to come out of Tevinter society. And he was rather fond of me, too, I suppose. Though I think he really just missed his friends in the Inquisition.”

Anders was frowning. It wasn’t clear which part of this sordid affair he found the most upsetting. Was it that he had lied and deceived his way into Dorian’s life, or that he had actually fallen for the spoiled Magister himself?

“Anyway, once he knew I’d been lying, it was over.” Alarion hurried to finish the tale. “He couldn’t trust me. No matter what I said or did to try and fix it. And I don’t blame him for feeling betrayed. I knew we had no future. But I just wanted to make sure no more harm came to him because of me.”

“Very noble of you,” Anders said, almost mockingly. “But the Venatori weren’t _your_ fault.”

“No. At least I don’t think they were. But the last thing my spy contact said before letting me know in no uncertain terms that my services were no longer needed made me think that maybe the Agents of Fen’Harel had been protecting Dorian from the brunt of their attacks somehow. So long as I kept reporting things to their satisfaction, and kept him in Tevinter where he could be ‘managed’...”

“Interesting...”

“Is it? I wish I knew more. I was recruited along with a bunch of other young elves, orphans, beggars, and petty criminals, all with chips on our shoulders. We were told we’d be doing our part to support some big movement. Something that would topple the Imperium and bring some dignity to our people. I didn’t care about any of that. I just wanted to avenge my dead parents. But the more I hear the Venatori spouting their own rhetoric about restoring greatness to dead or dying empires, the more I think it all begins to sound the same. The Inquisition, at least, seems to be looking ahead, instead of behind them.”

“The Inquisition began as a movement to restore the supremacy of the Chantry,” Anders grumbled. “To rein in the mages and Templars _both_ under the control of the Divine.”

“Is it still?”

“Well, they chose to ally with the mages and disavow the Templar Order only _after_ it had become so overrun by corruption and red lyrium that it was no longer useful to them. But with the Right Hand of the Divine attempting to revive the Seekers...”

“But the Inquisitor is a mage! And I’ve only heard good things about the new Divine and her belief that magic is a gift from the Maker and her non-traditional views on just about everything else...”

“_This_ Divine may not wish to re-establish the kind of control her predecessors sought. Not yet, anyway. But what about the next? And the one after that? The structure for oppression is still very much in tact. The cycle will repeat itself. And there will be other rebellions. More wars. When the pendulum swings far enough in one direction, it always comes crashing back even harder in the other.”

“Well, that’s grim.”

“Speaking of grim…” Anders sighed. “Go ahead and toss your lucky coin. See if we fare any better at its mercy than we did following the voice in my head.”

…

The tunnel Alarion chose with the flip of his coin ended up depositing them in the foothills not far from Gherlen’s Pass, the surface entrance to Orzammar, which certainly wasn’t the worst-case scenario Anders had allowed his mind to entertain in all its fretting. They could hopefully pass through the busier parts of the underground city, gather some supplies, and then pass into the Deep Roads that could take them under Ferelden the rest of the way toward Kal’Hirol, without attracting too much attention. The residents of Orzammar were used to snubbing humans, but Alarion would probably need something to cover his ears and elv_ish_ markings and Anders knew he would need to keep his staff stowed as inconspicuously as he could across his back. It wasn’t that the dwarves so much feared magic as they just found it sort of rude to flaunt your magical abilities in public.

But as they trekked leisurely across the muddy landscape, relieved for a bit of fresh air and a glimpse at a starlit sky, toward the giant stone dwarves that marked the entrance to the underground empire, they came upon half a dozen freshly-dead corpses. Most of them seemed to have been electrocuted or hewn in half by a large axe. Several mages and a couple of assassins, judging by their poisoned daggers and staves.

“Venatori…” Alarion muttered, kicking one of the mages’ cloaks up to show the ridiculous horned hoods they wore, a cheap throwback to Old Tevinter fashion during the height of its ancient power.

“Do the Venatori typically recruit dwarves?” Anders asked, kneeling down beside a body that had been dragged a bit away from the others, a dwarf. He could sense the residual energy of some basic healing spells that had done little to mitigate the effects of the cursed magic the Venatori used.

“No…” Alarion strode over. “Not usually. Maybe he’s the axe-swinger?”

“He couldn’t have taken out all six of them by himself. There was at least another mage fighting with him. Who tried to save him, it seems.”

They looked past the dwarf, to another muddy trail leading away from the fight.

Alarion bent down to inspect some footprints. “Another dwarf, I think...dragging something…”

“That would be the other mage, I assume.” Anders stood up straighter, following their path, which seemed to lead directly into Gherlen’s Pass.

All of this was beginning to form oddly-familiar images in Alarion’s head. He hung back a little, staring at the dead dwarf. His reddish hair and beard. The gold swirling embroidery pattern sewn into the fine crimson brocade he wore. He didn’t know a lot of dwarves, but this one seemed to have familiar features. Two dwarves and a mage...that certainly would have been an odd sight, but it reminded him of someone...

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” a woman roared, and a bolt of lightning suddenly cracked across the air in front of them.

The mage who cast it stepped out from behind the nearest giant dwarf statue, looking fearsome with electricity arcing up her arms and lighting her face from below.

“Mae!” Alarion yelled, moving toward her.

“Alarion?! You traitorous bastard! What have you done with Dorian?”

Anders stepped in front of him with a barrier before she could shoot another bolt of lightning at them. In spite of her threatening stance, her casting was slow, and she stumbled a little as the electricity fizzled from her fingertips.

“Dorian is fine. He is at Skyhold under the Inquisition's protection!" Anders shouted, holding his barrier.

“Venatori!” she hissed, channeling all of her remaining energy into trying to break through it. “If I have to die on the surface of this muddy, Maker-forsaken continent, at least I’m taking as many of you as I can along with me.”

Alarion began to try and explain, “But we’re not -- “ 

“Maevaris!” Another familiar dwarf, with the same reddish hair and patterns on his armor, stepped out from behind her. If he hadn’t had a beard, Anders might have mistaken him for Varric. “Save your energy! We must get below the surface, and then the Stone will protect us.”

Maevaris collapsed, and the dwarf managed to catch her as they fell back onto the ground together in a heap.

She eyed Anders suspiciously as he approached. “You’re lucky I’m dying…” she groaned, as the dwarf slumped with her against the stone guardian, his own breathing labored. “And that Winar here busted his axe in the skull of one of our last attackers…”

Anders immediately let his barrier dissipate and knelt down beside them. “We’re not Venatori,” he said, trying to reassure her. “May I take a look at your wounds?”

Alarion smiled and shook his head. _Always a healer_. How could Anders ever think of himself as anything else?

Maevaris rolled her eyes and waved her hand dismissively over her failing body. “Go ahead and take as many looks as you’d like, stranger.”

“You’ve been stabbed in three places. Two of them somewhat threatening to your short-term survival,” Anders reported with a frown after a cursory examination. “But it’s worse than that…”

“No shit?” Maevaris laughed, and then began coughing.

"The Venatori assassins have been using a poison bolstered by blood magic and...something else…I’ve seen it before." 

_Cullen_. He recognized the same signs, the rapid spread of necrosy, and the _pull_ of it. It wasn’t enough that it seemed to cause deep, devastating physical infection. It also seemed to be designed to ravage one’s soul.

"I _know_,” Maevaris groaned impatiently. “I need to get back to Tevinter, to a healer who knows how to bind spirits. Nobody this side of the Waking Sea can reverse this ugly magic. But I fear half of Tevinter are probably Venatori blood thralls by now...and I’m not too far from that fate myself.”

“Mae…” Winar said, looking pitifully at her.

“If it comes to that, Winar has promised to finish me off.”

“It won’t.” The dwarf shook his head, fighting back tears.

She pointed, chastising him. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me now, cousin. Now is not the time to start having _feelings_ in that stoney heart of yours.”

"Anders is a healer!” Alarion interjected. “And he’s got a spirit who can help…” He turned toward Anders, beaming with an utterly inappropriate amount of enthusiasm. 

Meanwhile, Anders was trying not to look at him for fear that the embarrassment of his unabashed admiration might actually finally kill him.

“...right?" Alarion pleaded.

Maevaris' meticulously-shaped eyebrow went up, in spite of her rapidly-decompensating condition. "_Anders_...from Kirkwall? Mage Rebellion Anders? Maker, Alarion, how do you manage to find so much trouble?"

Alarion shrugged, still smiling like an idiot. “Lucky, I guess?”

"I _can_ help," Anders said determinedly. The words left his mouth before he had even fully thought them. _Someone else’s words_, he thought, with a little smile.

"I imagine you can. But does your spirit of justice really feel like helping a member of the Tevinter nobility?"

"Not Justice...not anymore…"

"_I_ can help…" A young man, a boy, maybe? Shimmering a little, in a golden haze, came slinking out of the trees nearby, his face hidden under an enormous floppy hat.

Alarion blinked. Now that he saw him, he did _feel_ slightly familiar. Perhaps _this_ was the voice Anders had been following.

"Oh…? And _you_ are…?" Maevaris asked.

“This...is Compassion.” Anders was standing suddenly taller, and he looked every bit the confident Healer that Alarion had fallen instantly for when he’d demanded to treat his wounds after rescuing him from the Fade in Kirkwall.

"I thought maybe I was seeing things as Death approached to whisk me across the Veil.” Maevaris shook her head. “But I've heard about you. From Dorian. He was always sort of fuzzy on the details, though. Cole, right?"

Cole nodded. “You have always known who _you_ are. It took the rest of them time. Some more than others. But _he_ saw you first. I’m sorry he’s gone. But you won’t be able to join him like this. The corruption will keep you apart.”

A tear streaked down Maevaris’ cheek. “I know, spirit.” 

Winar squeezed her hand, and she looked back gratefully at him.

“The Healer and I can help.”

"Alright, then...looks like it was my lucky day…sort of." She laughed bitterly, choking again, on blood this time. 

Winar nodded with a steely look at Maevaris and then at the rest of them. 

Anders’ hands began to glow with his own healing magic, as he laid them on the worst of her wounds and tried to repair enough of the damage and stop the bleeding so that they could work on extracting the poison and undoing the blood magic. Cole watched, hovering impatiently over him as he worked, until Anders looked up at him and nodded his permission to take over. Then Cole disappeared into him and the energy changed, the greenish blue of Anders’ healing magic suddenly flashed a brilliant gold, reflected in his amber eyes, and Maevaris’ entire body became wrapped in a swirling net of gold and blue-green tendrils.

Alarion couldn’t decide if it was the sheer amount of magic funneling through and pouring out of him, the spirit possessing him so easily without any coercion or malice, or the fact that Anders’ robe, with its teal velvet and gold accents fully lit up by magic, somehow _matched_ what he was doing that caused his mouth to fall open in awe. But he realized he’d been standing there looking completely dumbstruck for awhile around the same time he realized he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Winar glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and nodded as Alarion finally gasped for air and shut his mouth, returning his glare with a sheepish look. They both returned their attention to Maevaris and Anders/Cole while they continued to draw the poison out of her in wisps and knit back together the torn pieces of her body and her soul.

…

Anders had regained consciousness and Cole had disappeared once again, but they had been successful. Maevaris was already standing up, brushing herself off and straightening her form-fitting powder blue dress and fur stole with the help of a bit of magic to clean off the mud and blood and reset her perfectly-coiffed white-blonde hair.

She pulled off an earring and handed it to Anders. “Here...lyrium…”

“Thank you…?” he said, looking hesitantly at the glowing crystal stud.

“Just hold it, or lick it, or shove it up your ass, for all I care. It’ll recharge your mana on contact. It’s the pure stuff, not some watered down bullshit in a bottle your Templars drink to get a rush.”

Anders closed his hand around it, and sure enough, felt his magical energy instantly replenished...and then some.

“That spirit summoning trick...” Maevaris offered Anders a hand as he stood up, passing the earring back to her. “I can’t imagine they taught you _that_ in one of your Southern Circles?”

Anders smiled and shook his head. “It was a Dalish elf, exiled from her own clan, who helped me understand that you don’t need to permanently bind or be bound to spirits in order to let them work through you. And _this_ particular spirit...well, he always seems inclined to help.”

“You both could definitely teach our people some things about the power of willing partnership over, say, subjugation…” Maevaris looked over to Alarion, who was seated next to Winar and was trying to convince the dwarf to remove his armor so his wounds could be looked after now that Anders had woken up and Maevaris had been saved.

"Lady Thalrassian was convinced you were out for revenge against her, Alarion. Were you?"

Alarion looked up at her. "Yes. Initially…” There was no point in lying about it now.

“I get that.” Maevaris smiled knowingly down at him. 

Aquinea Thalrassian was not an easy person to get along with. The Tilani and Pavus families had always been close, and Maevaris had grown up alongside Dorian. She knew the ins and out of his difficult relationship with his parents and his mother, in particular. Strangely enough, Aquinea had never once batted an eyelash at Maevaris’ public transition, nor her marriage to a dwarf. Which was something she knew Dorian was probably a little bitter about, since his mother had struggled _his_ entire life to accept him for who he was.

Alarion stood up, as close to eye-level with her as he could get. “She’s dead, Mae.”

Maevaris looked stunned for a moment. “You didn’t…?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Venatori. They were after Dorian, too.”

She clenched her fists and muttered, “Fasta vass…” through gritted teeth. “I should’ve stayed.”

“They were all over Skyhold. Posing as hired guards from Tevinter. I...was in the dungeons when it happened. I couldn't stop them.”

“Then how do you know she’s dead?”

“Dorian told us...right before we -- ”

“...ran away? And he _let_ you?!”

Alarion’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. He didn’t need me anymore once he was with his friends again.” He looked down. “And I...well, the whole revenge thing wasn’t really for me, it turns out.”

A curious grin crept across her face. “Awww...Dorian ruined your plans for vengeance, didn’t he?”

Alarion laughed, giving himself away.

“He _does_ that…” Maevaris smiled fondly right before her face twisted up in disgust. “Ugh, it’s so annoying! All his good intentions and idealistic optimism. It’s a contagious _disease_, really.”

“He’s not _always_ so optimistic...”

“Who really can be when you’re attempting to reverse thousands of years of systemic fuckery? The important thing is that he keeps _trying_, bless his foolishly good heart.”

“What about you? He considers you his partner in the movement. You must be pretty optimistic, too.”

“Yes, well. He converted me.” She threw her hands up as though it were some kind of confession. “Best friends from childhood or _whatever_...when he came back from the Inquisition, I was still swearing vengeance for what they’d done to my family and my husband and I thought he would want to join me in taking down the entire Magisterium after they did the same to his father. But Dorian helped me see that the way to right those wrongs for good was through diplomacy and reform, not simply more bloodshed. Otherwise, the cycle would just continue.”

“Admirable.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

“Yes…though the last time I saw him, he just looked...tired.”

“So you _do_ still have feelings for him?”

Alarion glanced behind him toward Anders as he worked to clean and bandage Winar’s wounds, which, luckily, were mostly superficial, thanks to his heavy dwarven armor.

“Ah, I see…” Maevaris smiled knowingly. “Gave up the spying and plotting for a new boy?”

“I gave up the spying and the plotting when it nearly got us both killed and made Dorian hate me,” Alarion sighed. “I thought I could handle it. Thought maybe I could protect him in spite of it. I was wrong.”

“You don’t need to protect him.”

"I know that _now_…" he laughed.

Anders cleared his throat behind them. “Um, well, we should really keep moving, in case any more Venatori have followed us from Skyhold. Do you have anyone in Orzammar? Friends, or, allies, who might be able to offer you protection? I suppose that’s where we’re headed...”

Maevaris laughed. “Do _I_ have allies in Orzammar?!” She winked at Winar, who chuckled along with her, then she turned back toward Anders. “Do you know who I am?”

“I _assume_ you're some...Tevinter noblewoman? One of Dorian’s friends? I can’t imagine you or him venturing below the Surface much...”

Alarion grimaced, and Maevaris grinned knowingly at him. “You really know how to pick ‘em, Alarion…”

“You are in the presence of the venerable Magistra Maevaris Tilani, widow of Thorold Tethras, and honored member of the Dwarven Ambassadoria,” Winar announced, standing back up in his full armor again, damaged as it was, and taking his place at her side, where the top of his head came approximately up to her waist.

“Thank you, my dear,” she reached for his gauntleted hand, bending down a little and pulling it to her lips for an appreciative kiss.

“She has lots of friends in Orzammar,” Alarion whispered to Anders, in case he hadn’t understood.

“Oh, I see…” Anders was never a fan of formal introductions or titles or...whatever this was. "Tethras? So you know Varric?"

"Of _course_ I know Varric! _Everyone_ knows Varric! _And_ he’s my cousin. Winar’s too. But don't worry...I don't hold his grudges. He loves that cursed city a little too much for his own good."

“Um, well, you seem to know Alarion already, and you know who I am, so...uh…”

“Yes.” Maevaris laughed disarmingly. “Do _you_ have any friends below the Surface?”

“Just one…at least, I hope she still considers me a friend…”

“Well, you’ve got at least one more now. You’ll have to work a little harder to win over Winar, though. He’s notoriously stubborn. Even for a dwarf.”

“You know that’s just a stereotype, Mae!”

“Apologies.” She nodded at him. “But you _are_ quite stubborn.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.


	3. Well-Equipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Alarion are forced to take a pit stop in Orzammar with Maevaris and her cousin, Winar, before making their way further east in search of Solona and her rogue Wardens.

Maevaris burst into their room after a couple of impatient knocks. “Come with me!” She tucked her arm around Anders’ elbow before he could even finish standing up to answer the door. “I want to buy you a present!”

“I don’t think --” But he knew there was no point in protesting.

He’d quickly learned that Maevaris Tilani was even bossier than Marian Hawke. Once they’d made it to Orzammar the previous night, she’d insisted on renting them a room in an inn owned by _another_ friend or relation, and forcing them to sit down and eat a “hearty Dwarven dinner” while they caught her up on their recent adventures in Kirkwall. She’d also had an entire breakfast spread brought up to their room early this morning, which Alarion seemed to appreciate at least, devouring both his and most of Anders’ portions while Anders poked at the greyish porridge and muttered something about not wanting to stay too long in Orzammar.

Anders glanced back at Alarion now as Maevaris pulled him toward the door. Alarion nodded reassuringly at him.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on this one,” Winar said. “He can come with me to the armory while I get my axe repaired.”

Alarion looked a little more reluctant at the prospect of having to spend the morning with the dwarf, but he waved Anders along all the same. “Sounds...educational!”

“That boy is in love with you, you know,” Maevaris informed him as soon as they were far enough down the hall to be out of earshot.

“I can’t understand why.”

Maevaris rolled her eyes. "Yes, well...in all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him looking like such a grinning idiot.”

“Not even when he and Dorian were together…? I mean before...er, the uh, lying, and the kidnapping, that is.”

Maevaris laughed. “I rarely ever saw him off-duty, even when Dorian practically _begged_ him to relax and stop working. There’d be glimpses of a personality every now and then, a little joke or laugh or a comment with that little smart-ass smirk of his, but I think being a spy might’ve gotten to him a bit?”

“Ah, so he’s probably just relieved, then. That it's all over. Not...the other thing.”

“Hmmm...yes." Maevaris side-eyed him. "Tell yourself what you must.” She reached over and patted his arm with her other hand.

Anders was grateful that they’d reached the main doors of the inn just in time for him to change the subject. “Where are we going?”

Maevaris’ eyes lit up. “To my jeweler!”

“Oh, but I don’t need -- ”

“Ugh, would you _please_ just stop being so..._willfully_ miserable?!”

…

Maevaris led him past several large crowded jewelry and gemstone merchants to a small dark shop, seemingly wedged into the stone itself when the mountains they were under were still forming. There was a weathered family crest or something and some Dwarven lettering carved into the stone above the large wooden door, the details of which Anders had no hope of recognizing due to the erosion of hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Not that he could have read Dwarven anyway.

Maevaris winked at Anders, then pushed open the heavy door.

A deep rumbling baritone voice greeted them from inside. “Magistra! It is always good to see you!”

“Thank you, Lucric. Are you open?”

“Yes! For you, of course, yes! Come in, come in! What brings you to me today?”

She held the door open, and pulled Anders in behind her. The interior of the shop was nothing like the worn down stony exterior. It was bright and its inner walls sparkled with sharp crystalline angles and gems of every size, shape, and color that made the light bounce around and refract into tiny rainbows on every remaining flat surface. It was as if they’d just stepped inside of a massive geode.

“I want you to make my friend here something special for his ear.”

She turned toward Anders, who reached up and tugged on his earlobe, frowning.

"I noticed it was pierced. But if you'd prefer an amulet or a ring or maybe a bracelet or something…?"

"No, that's not…"

He sighed in resignation as Maevaris turned back toward the dwarf decisively. "An earring, then."

Lucric leaned in close, his hands braced on the counter between them, and whispered conspiratorially, “How _special_ are we talking here?”

“He’s a mage,” she nodded in affirmation. “He just saved me and Winar with powerful magic no mortal has any business wielding. _That_ kind of special.”

Lucric’s eyes grew wide with dark delight. “I see…” He nodded determinedly. “That _is_ quite special.”

“So are you, my dear.” She rested one of her hands on top of his, patting it gently. “I just know whatever you come up with will be amazing.”

“Awww, shucks, Mae!”

“We’ll be back tomorrow. Is that enough time?”

“Should be. The twins are due back today with a fresh haul from the mines. Good pure stuff. We just opened up a new vein way down deep. Trying to get as far away from the red stuff as we can.”

“Thanks, love!” She leaned over the counter and kissed him lightly on the cheek, causing his entire face to redden almost instantly.

“Er, yeah...thanks,” Anders waved to the blushing dwarf as Maevaris caught him by the elbow again and headed for the door in a swirl of powder blue.

“Lucric is another cousin…several times removed, via marriage...”

“You seem to have a lot of them,” Anders smirked.

“I have more allies down here than I _ever_ had in Tevinter.”

“Nobody down here really seems to care that I blew up half a city, either,” he shrugged. “It’s actually a little disconcerting.”

“Oh, that reminds me...” Maevaris clapped her hands together excitedly. “I need to introduce you to the Glavonaks!”

"I already know Dworkin...and Voldrin…?”

“Voldrik?”

“Yeah! And I met one of _their_ cousins...Temmerin, I think…?”

"_How_ do you -- ”

“I served for a short time at Vigil’s Keep, when the brothers were there lending their aid against the talking Darkspawn. And then I ran into Temmerin a few years later in the Deep Roads in search of...a friend.”

_Nathaniel_. Anders hadn’t really thought of him for some time. He wondered if he’d joined Solona’s rogue group of Wardens as well, or if he’d been caught up in the internal strife caused by the Elder One. He wasn’t sure if the possibility of running into him again was more exciting or worrying. They maybe could have been lovers...sort of..._almost_...at Vigil’s Keep. Anders had flirted relentlessly with the poor prickly assassin, and when Nate had finally begun to reciprocate, Anders had done what he was best at back then, and fled. With Justice. _As_ Justice. To Kirkwall. To Karl.

“But Vigil’s Keep is a Grey Warden fortress...isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a fucking _Warden_, too?!”

“Technically, yes.”

“Why didn’t you say so?! They _love_ Wardens down here! Been really missing them since, well...I’m sure _you_ know about what happened. It took me months to get the full story from Dorian. He did _not_ want to talk about what happened in the Western Approach. All we knew up in Tevinter was that the Order had basically just...disappeared.”

“I haven’t been an _active_ member of the Order for some time.”

“From what I understand, that’s not exactly how it works.” She peered curiously at him.

Maevaris had seen several instances of Blight sickness in her time below the surface, dwarves who’d been attacked by the occasional stray Darkspawn breaking through the deeper layers guarded by the Legion, and the blighted red lyrium had begun to spread throughout Thedas both above and below ground, causing all kinds of horrific side effects and degrees of ‘taintedness.’ Anders looked sort of weathered and waifish, but he certainly didn’t look _haunted_, like so many of the Wardens she’d encountered down here did as they followed their ‘Calling’ further into the deep abyss.

“I know as much as you do, probably less, actually. I was alone and in hiding when the Inquisition tracked the source of the ‘false calling’...”

He’d certainly heard it, though it was faint. He assumed his time above ground, apart from the others, and far enough away from the source, had spared him somewhat from the compulsion to seek out the other Wardens in desperation. And, he supposed, his fear that if he did attempt to reunite with them, they’d be less than enthusiastic to see him again. But he _had_ felt its pull.

“Hawke and Varric told me most of the Order was lost at Adamant,” he sighed, trying not to think of the others he’d befriended during his short time at Vigil’s Keep. “But her cousin...”

“Ah, so that is the _one friend_ you have below the Surface!”

“I hope so. She probably hates me, though, like everyone else.”

Maevaris rolled her eyes and shook her head at him, but decided that convincing him otherwise was a lost cause.

…

"Don't know what Mae wants to do with you yet…" Winar grumbled at Alarion. "Best come with me."

Alarion swallowed a greedy mouthful of the breakfast Maevaris had sent up to them. "What’s it to you?"

"A friend of the Magistra is a friend of mine."

"Wait...so...we're friends, then?" Alarion smiled, offering him a strange subterranean fruit from the platter.

Winar shook his head. "I meant the Pavus lad…"

"Oh.” Alarion’s smile faded a little. “I see…"

"But also...your weapon and equipment is pathetic and I wish to see you better prepared for whatever you may encounter down here below the surface."

Alarion ran his fingers over his bowstring, plucking it like a musical instrument. "It's served me well so far…"

"Such a ridiculously delicate thing...maybe up above where the sky stretches up for miles and you can just leisurely fling your arrows all willy-nilly in every direction without hitting a thing...but down here." He shook his head. "It won't do."

“You must think I lack skill with my own weapon?” Alarion mused. “I could demonstrate what I can do with it, if you’d like…”

But Winar ignored his playful threats. “You’ll come with me. Tegrun is the best weaponsmith Orzammar has ever seen, descended from the Weaponsfather himself. She’ll be able to fix you up.”

The forge district of Orzammar was like nothing Alarion had ever seen, even in his rare visits to the underground dwarven settlement in Minrathous. Streams of molten material criss-crossed the street, fed by a river of lava pooling up from somewhere deep below. The smell of sulphur burnt his nostrils and made his eyes water, and the sound of anvils clanking, the glow of dozens of forges, and the sights and sounds and smells of so many grunting, sweaty dwarves overwhelmed his other senses.

Tegrun’s shop was huge, and she had half a dozen assistants working busily at her own private forges. She was currently inspecting a pair of daggers etched with intricate complementary lyrium designs, and she was frowning.

She glared at Winar, and completely ignored Alarion, as he walked almost-apologetically toward her.

“What is it now, _Tethras_?” she asked him impatiently, spitting the family name out like a curse.

Winar looked thoroughly ashamed. “I...my axe.” He placed the two pieces of the blade and what remained of the heavy wooden haft on the huge anvil in front of her for inspection.

“Were you chopping at the Stone itself again?!”

“No. Venatori. From Tevinter. After Magistra Tilani I imagine. Attacked us just as we were on our way here from the mountains. Magicked my axe into pieces I’m afraid.”

“Hrm...I’ll have the enchanters see if they can add some magic resistance after I reforge the head.”

“Thank you, Tegrun.” He nearly bowed in gratitude.

“What about that armor I made you? Taking good care of it or did the Venatori magic_ that _apart, too?”

Winar heaved the sack he’d been carrying his armor in onto the anvil as well.

“I can’t believe you’d let it get this bad!” Tegrun fussed as she inspected the dents and scuff marks.

“Tried to clean off the mud and the gore, but…” Winar’s cheeks began to redden with shame. “They appeared out of nowhere. All hopped up on blood magic and red lyrium.”

He paused and Tegrun looked up at him expectantly.

“We lost Velgrin…and would’ve lost the Magistra if it weren’t for this lad and his Healer friend.” He motioned behind him toward Alarion who was inspecting some of the armor and weapons on display with delighted curiosity.

Tegrun’s chastising tone and the disapproval in her face vanished immediately at the mention of his cousin’s death.

“I’m sorry, Winar,” she whispered. Then, after a moment of mournful silence, “Velgrin will be missed.”

“Yes, well...I’ve got to let the rest of the family know. Mae has offered to pay for all the arrangements and accompany me on the journey. He died a hero’s death, at least. We’ll be off as soon as we’ve had a chance to recover and repair.”

Tegrun nodded. “I’ll get your armor and your axe repaired today. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you before you leave.”

Winar turned and waved Alarion over. “Elf! Bring your bow!

Tegrun eyed Alarion’s bow and quiver with a look of disgust. "Ugh! What _is_ that?! Some kind of harp or something?"

Alarion snorted with amusement, setting the bow on the anvil so she could have a closer look.

"Oh, you know...just the usual elf nonsense,” Winar scoffed. “It’s meant to be a weapon, but it’s more form than function."

"Must be _nice_ to have that luxury…"

"Maybe shorten it up a bit, so it can actually fit in the tunnels…and an arm guard? Shooting at close range, he’ll need more protection."

"I could add some reinforcement to the bowstring…? Might make it more cumbersome, but at least it won’t snap. Can’t imagine having to restring a bow while a horde of Darkspawn come at you is ideal.”

“I don’t think…” Alarion began, but he was shushed by both of them as they continued brainstorming ways to transform his bow into something more acceptable.

"And some hide-piercing arrowheads, maybe? In case he runs into any ogres?"

"I only got crossbow bolts.” Tegrun shook her head. “Ever since your surface-loving cousin started showing off his impossible crossbow and lying about who made it, I get requests all the time to make up new prototypes by people claiming it’s their design...none of them work, of course, but I’ll take their coin, nonetheless.”

"Well, if you’re already _reinforcing_ the bowstring…and with some kind of modified arrow rest..."

"But would _he_ be able to string it?" She actually looked at Alarion directly for the first time since they’d entered the shop, with a skeptical frown.

"My little Ulric could…"

"Yeah, but _he's_ a dwarf…”

"I think I'll take my chances with my bow.” Alarion began to pull it away from Tegrun. “As is. If you don't mind..."

"Don't be offended, boy!” Winar slapped him heartily on the back. “We are trying to help you!"

"It'll still be _cute_, I promise." Tegrun winked.

"Yeah, Tegrun does fine work. Don’t worry about cost. Mae will cover it.”

"Fine," Alarion agreed with a loud sigh. “But I’d better still recognize the thing when you’re done with it.”

Tegrun nodded determinedly. “Anything else?”

Winar smiled wide, looking disapprovingly at Alarion’s leather armor. “Actually…”

…

Maevaris had dragged Anders along with her as she did her rounds, checking in, shaking hands, and pecking the cheeks of nearly everyone they met. Introducing him to people she thought might be intrigued, and allowing him to fade into the background with those who might not be so impressed. She was a consummate politician, and if she was half as good with Tevinter nobles as she was with the dwarves down in Orzammar, it was no wonder that she and Dorian had been so successful so far in recruiting people to their cause.

"Does Varric know you're down here?" she asked quietly, as they finally headed toward the forge district in search of Winar and Alarion.

"I imagine by now that he knows I helped Alarion escape from Skyhold…but does he know, specifically, that Alarion and I were headed to Orzammar? _I_ didn't even really know, so…"

"Well, he'll find out soon enough, I’m sure. What do you think he'll do with that information once it gets to him?"

Anders sighed. "Maker knows…"

"Give it your best guess, dear...please?”

"Maybe write a book about it…?"

Maevaris let out an exasperated sigh. "I _mean_...do you think he'll tell his friends in the Inquisition? He _is_ an Ambassador, after all…and what about the Champion?"

Anders shrugged. He honestly didn’t know. The night he’d left had almost felt like old times again. Hawke had seemed eager to move beyond the disagreements that had separated them and make amends, and, even though he’d been a bit more hostile at first, Varric had seemed to accept him back into the company of his closest friends. But then, of course, just as soon as they’d all begun to give him a second (or third...or fourth) chance, he’d run away again.

He sighed. "Are _you_ going to tell the Inquisition?"

"No."

"But I thought you and Dorian were good friends?”

Maevaris shrugged. "He let you go, didn't he?"

"Yes, but…"

"Then I will respect his decision.”

“Then...I guess...thank you.”

“I mean, you _did_ just save my life. And I’d like to think we’ve been getting along well enough to not interfere with whatever you’ve got going on with Alarion."

“Ah, yes.” How much should he tell her? So far, she had given him no good reason not to trust her, even if she _was_ close friends with the two people with the most compelling reasons to have him or Alarion arrested. “Well, we were actually headed further east…”

“Why not stay here? There’s a small group of mages here in Orzammar living together and studying the nature and effects of lyrium. Like a Circle, except...without the Chantry and the Templars.”

“What? I’ve never heard of this! A ‘free’ Circle in Orzammar?" This might have made his work with the Mage Underground a little bit easier…quite literally, in fact.

“It’s not something much talked about in _polite_ society. But the dwarves leave them alone. Most of them came down here as apostates when things began to get tense up above, to learn what they could from a local genius named Dagna. But then she left to join the Inquisition. Lucric and I have worked with them and some of our arcane enchanters, but they’ve recently begun doing research with red lyrium and I’m afraid _that’s_ beyond the limits of my knowledge and expertise.

“Does _Varric_ know that this is happening?”

“He’s the one who originally brought the stuff to their attention! A few pieces of that cursed idol that drove Bartrand mad. They are quite careful with it and go to great lengths to limit exposure and keep it locked away most of the time. But they might benefit from someone with your kind of experience. Most of them had only ever lived and studied in their own restrictive Circles before.”

“I am not.._.that_ is not something I have any desire to be a part of. _And_ I’m told I lack...leadership skills.” He laughed.

Maevaris smiled warmly at him. “Hmmm...right. Well, I guess that makes sense. And what would poor Alarion do stuck with a bunch of lyrium-sniffing mages, anyway?”

“He is free to go or do whatever he likes.”

“Yes, of course.” She waved her hand dismissively. “So joining up with a rogue group of Wardens really seems like a better plan? For the most part, they stay holed up deep below Kal’Hirol...doing mysterious _Warden_ things. Can’t be much better than experimenting with red lyrium...though I suppose you’ll certainly be more _hidden_ there.”

_Shit_. He hadn’t meant to reveal his _exact_ plans, but he hadn't realized she apparently knew everything that took place down here, either. But now that she mentioned it, it did seem kind of ridiculous to expect Alarion to give up so much just to lay low for awhile.

“I believe they have been working on a ‘cure’...for the taint,” he said. Might as well just tell her everything.

“And you and your spirit might be able to help them with that.” Maevaris smiled, knowingly. “The Venatori poison the assassins have been using was modeled in some ways on the ‘Blight’...the Darkspawn blood you drank as part of your Joining, and the blighted lyrium their allies in the Red Templars introduced them to both inspired and informed the Venatori’s research.”

“Solona asked me to help her years ago.” Anders looked down at the ground guiltily. “Before the Inquisition, even. And I refused. If I’d have known...”

“So why _now_?” Maevaris tried to interrupt another one of his descents into self-loathing by keeping him talking about his present plans.

They had arrived at the armory where Winar was attempting to outfit Alarion in heavier armor as he shook his head in polite refusal at the insistent dwarf. As they approached, he turned and smiled wide with relief at the sight of Anders. His _rescuer_. Perhaps he could also rescue him from the dwarf fussing over him now?

“_Oh_,” Maevaris smiled, squeezing Anders’ arm. “I see.”

Anders blushed, and she released him with another little pat on the arm, before heading over to save Alarion herself from Winar’s overly-protective mothering.

“Stop harassing the poor boy!” she admonished him. “He’s not one of your little broodlings…”

“But he’ll get eaten alive down here with just this light leather foolishness!”

“He’s got the _Healer_ to protect him…” Maevaris looked back at Anders with a shit-eating grin.

He was still just standing there, his face burning red from ear-to-ear.

“Did you get your axe repaired?”

“Tegrun says it’ll be ready tomorrow, with some additional enhancements, along with my armor. And she’s going to fix up _this_ one’s bow a bit. Make it more sturdy and Stone-worthy since he says they’re planning on heading for the Deep Roads.”

“How generous…” Maevaris murmured as she pulled out a large sack of coins and set them on the anvil with a heavy clink.

“I told them I don’t need -- ” Alarion protested, trying to estimate the amount of money she had just plunked down like it was nothing.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Tegrun can work miracles and I won’t have you two running into a cluster of Darkspawn down here without some important subterranean upgrades.”

“Well, I do intend to try and avoid ‘clusters’ of them…” Anders finally had recovered enough to speak.

“_And_ you have to stay another night anyway, because Anders’ earring won’t be ready until tomorrow, either.” She winked.

Alarion looked at Anders and he just shrugged back at him. They both knew they really didn’t have a choice in the matter.

…

“_I _will sleep on the floor tonight,” Alarion insisted.

“Oh, that’s very...um…” Anders smiled self-consciously. “But...I don’t think _I’ll_ fit on this bed.”

Alarion looked up at him, pretending to be offended. “You’re not _that_ much taller than me, you know!” He stood up and marched over to Anders, standing up to his full height and lifting his chin defiantly toward him, unable to conceal his impish grin.

“Oh no…?” Anders loomed smugly over him, still slouching a little to really rub it in.

But Alarion remained persistent, rising up on his tiptoes, still hopelessly below eye-level as Anders stood up just a bit straighter.

“Stop cheating!”

“You’re the one standing on your toes!” Anders scoffed.

“But you _never_ stand up straight…”

Anders laughed earnestly then, slumping back down to his normal height, and Alarion felt his heart nearly implode on itself at the rare, wonderful sound of it. He was suddenly very aware of how close their mouths were to each other. He _could_ kiss him. It would be easy enough from here, to grab his bottom lip between his own, or to reach a hand up and pull him the inch or two down to his mouth, but it would mean an abrupt stop to his beautiful laughter. And Alarion didn’t dare.

He lowered himself back down off his toes and smiled. “I’ll just go see about finding another bedroll, then...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this chapter was "Tall?" ;) I obviously wrote that last section first. But then "grunting, sweaty dwarves" made their way into my brain and I got distracted.


	4. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maevaris helps Anders and Alarion sneak out of Orzammar just as some members of the Inquisition arrive on a quest of their own. The only problem is, they'll have to pass right by Kinloch Hold as they make their way east above the surface in search of Solona Amell and _her_ Wardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is a crossover chapter with figgy's [Two Weddings and a Funeral, Chapter 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706413/chapters/49730729#workskin)! That might contain some spoilers for what's to come in a couple chapters here, so read with caution if you don't like that sort of thing!]

The earring and the modifications to Alarion’s bow (_and_ armor) ended up taking more than a day to complete to Maevaris’ and Winar’s exacting specifications, which seemed to put Anders even more on edge than usual. Alarion, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the life of underground luxury provided for them by Maevaris’ seemingly endless wealth and generosity. And her many friendly connections.

"Oh! I suppose I should tell you, in case you wish to lay low while we wait...but Varric is in town, along with some woman from the Inquisition."

"What?!" Anders looked up at Maevaris in horrified betrayal. How could she not have mentioned this as soon as she'd returned from her morning rounds? 

“Yeah, saw him sulking in a pub this morning, pretending to write so that he could ignore all the dirty looks he was getting. He’s not exactly popular down here. I bought him a drink and we caught up a bit, but he seemed preoccupied.”

“You didn’t tell him…?”

“Wow…” She held her hand over her heart in an exaggerated flourish, looking scandalized. “I gave you my word, didn’t I?” 

Anders sighed. “You’ll have to forgive me if that hasn’t always meant very much from other people…”

“I assume they're looking for you." She nodded over at Alarion who seemed unfazed by the news as he munched fondly on the roast nug the innkeeper had prepared for them.

"Who was the woman?" Anders asked.

"Short, dark hair. Pretty eyes…kind of intense.”

"Sounds like Hawke…" he grumbled, feeling his heart rate settling just a little. "Though what they're up to is a mystery to me. I know they both hate it down here almost as much as I --"

He trailed off when he caught Alarion staring apologetically at him between mouthfuls of nug.

"I don't think it was the Champion." Maevaris shook her head. "He called her 'Seeker'...?”

"Shit!" Anders jumped up abruptly from the table, knocking over his chair, and looking ready to flee. His heart was racing all over again, double this time, as he instinctively searched the room for the nearest exit or hiding place.

Maevaris raised an eyebrow at his sudden panic. "Do you know her?"

He was starting to pace around the suite like a caged animal, trying to catch his breath and keep his heart from beating out of his chest while Alarion and Maevaris stared at him in alarm.

"No...only _of_ her," he huffed. "She was the Right Hand of the Divine when I...when Kirkwall...and now, with the Seekers reformed under the Inquisition -- "

"I see.” Maevaris nodded. “I can help sneak you two out of Orzammar if you’d like? Winar and I were planning on leaving early tomorrow. Everything should be ready for us by then. You can pretend to be part of the funeral entourage, and then duck out as soon as you’re safely above ground.”

Winar grumbled something, but Maevaris turned and smiled sympathetically at him. “Just until we get to the Surface, cousin.”

“Fine,” he huffed.

...

“We wish you luck, friends!” Maevaris hugged them both and planted kisses on each of their cheeks.

"Take care of yourself," Winar muttered and slapped Alarion on the back, causing him to nearly double over from the force of it.

“Please give my sympathies to your family.” Alarion took the opportunity of being bent over already to pull him into a hug and the blushing dwarf made no attempt to shrug him off.

Anders nodded with solemn gratitude as the entire entourage marched past them, headed west along the Imperial Highway.

He turned and stood for a few minutes in stony silence staring down the road to the east at a lake in the distance.

“We continue that way, then?” Alarion finally asked. “Along the road?”

“Yes…” though there was something strange in Anders' voice. Hesitation…_fear_? No. Something much darker than that.

“What is it?”

“Nothing…”

To the east was Kinloch Hold, the exact place he had hoped to avoid on their journey across Ferelden. He couldn’t see it yet, rising up above the smooth eerie stillness of Lake Calenhad, but he could feel it. He knew this road. Knew these caves, even, though he had never ventured down through the tunnels deep enough to find the hidden entrance to Orzammar. If he had, maybe his earlier escape attempts would have been more successful. Maybe he would’ve been able to get to Karl sooner…

“Anders?”

“Of course…” he murmured, his mouth slowly twisting into a weird sort of grin.

“What?”

“It’s been almost 15 years. But _of course_ I’d end up right back here.”

“Right back _where_?”

“Kinloch Hold…the _former_ Circle of Ferelden.”

“_Your_ former Circle?"

Anders nodded. “We'll have to pass right by it to get around the lake.”

“I’m sure we can find another way around…”

“All my escape attempts. All that I did to put distance between myself and this place, this life. It’s fitting, really that we’d just...well, I suppose the Maker has a sense of humor, after all.”

“...or we _could_ go back down below and take our chances?” 

“No.” Anders shook his head. “The Circles have all been liberated, abandoned, or dissolved. The Templar Order disbanded by what remains of the Chantry and the Inquisition. The place is probably empty.”

“Yeah, but…”

He finally turned and looked at Alarion, an intense determination in his eyes. “I _want_ to see it. I want to see what’s left of my old prison. Of the halls where Templars used to strut around the tower with impunity, thinking it was their _right_, granted by the Maker himself, to mistreat and abuse us and keep us locked away like monsters…I want to..._need to_ see it all deserted and in ruins.”

“Okay." Alarion nodded, attempting to match his determined look. “Then lead the way.”

...

They followed the road around the lake to the docks outside the abandoned Spoiled Princess Inn. It had clearly been looted several times over and had perhaps even served as a shelter for various waves of squatters and refugees during the turbulence of the past decade and a half, but it was completely empty now. Of people and anything that might have been useful to them.

“I used to know the innkeeper here…” Anders reminisced. “He was mostly loyal to the Templars, but he did eventually warm up to me after I helped him out with a bad infection during one of my escape attempts.”

Alarion just smiled and shook his head at him. He couldn’t imagine anyone _not_ warming up to a young Anders.

“Poor man.” Anders sighed. “First the Blight hit, then the war with the Templars…” He looked sadly around at what remained of the inn for any sign of his fate. “I hope he got out before things got too bad.”

Alarion didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t exactly an expert on the Blight or the Mage-Templar War in Ferelden, so he couldn’t offer much reassurance or any suggestions about the innkeeper’s fate. He tried to busy himself with looking around the wreckage of the place as well.

In a little room off to the side, he found a chest that had already been pried open and emptied of any valuables that it might have once contained. But there was a letter, neatly folded, laying undisturbed at the bottom. It was one of only a few things in the entire place that wasn't completely ruined or plundered, though he could tell by the yellowing of the paper, that it was at least a few years old.

“_My dearest Virginia Trueroyal…_” Alarion began to read aloud as he gently unfolded it.

He looked to Anders for any sign of recognition, but the mage just shook his head and laughed. “That _has_ to be a fake name!”

“_Words are a sad substitute for basking in the glory of your presence…_” Alarion continued.

Anders groaned and walked back into the main dining room of the little inn in search of something less trite and ridiculous.

“_Forgive me for my extended absence, my love, but Mother has insisted on my entertaining an endless stream of suitors now that I am of ‘a respectable marrying age.’_

_Don’t worry. They are all men. None could ever come close to competing with you for my heart and my...more carnal desires, as well. I blush from my cheeks all the way down to my thighs as I write this and my mind begins to picture all the things I wish to do to you the next time that we are alone together._

_We shall see each other in a few weeks at the summer estate in Highever, but our reunion can’t come soon enough. Mother keeps reminding me that your brother Rory will be there, and that he is _still_ single. Do you think he’ll still be up to playing along? He was such a good sport last time, and I don’t think he minded a chance to be alone with the horses and away from the chittering hens that have replaced our mothers in their advancing years._

_Thinking only of you...and your lips...and your neck...and the rest of you,_

_A._”

Alarion smiled, amused, and carefully re-folded the letter, placing it back in the otherwise-empty chest for someone else to hopefully find some day and enjoy.

“All done?” Anders asked, popping his head back in the door to the little side room.

“I just don’t understand why she would make up a fake name for her lover, then mention so many traceable personal details, then sign with an initial, and not create her own pseudonym? It would be so easy to figure out who wrote this and to whom.”

“Because she was clearly just a bored, dumb, horny teenager…” Anders smiled. “_Not_ a well-trained operative for some secretive spy network of elves.”

“Oh, I thought you had stopped listening,” Alarion smiled up at him.

“I heard ‘carnal desires’ and decided to start paying attention again.”

“I wonder what happened to them.”

"Is there a date on the letter?"

"5th of Cloudreach, 9:29"

“Well, if they didn’t die in the Blight or the War, I’m sure they both were forced to marry men they didn’t love and bear children they grew to resent. Best case scenario? They remain close and still get to fool around with one another every so often…perhaps at otherwise miserable family gatherings...”

“You’re _such_ a romantic!” Alarion laughed.

Anders shrugged. “They probably had a great time that summer, at least? Right before the Howes sacked Highever and the Darkspawn began ravaging the country, that is...”

“Poor Rory, though.”

“Sounds like he enjoyed the company of the horses more, anyway.”

“Can’t say I really blame him,” Alarion snorted. “Horses are easy to understand...you know when you’ve won them over, at least.”

Anders looked at him a little apologetically and sighed. If only Alarion knew what a doomed disaster he was. “Come on...let’s go see if we can find a way across.” He would realize soon enough, Anders supposed.

“You actually want to cross the lake? To the tower?”

“Yes.” Anders nodded darkly, before adding, “You don’t need to come if you don’t want to…”

Alarion stood up. “Well, I’m certainly not going to let you go back there _alone_.”

“We may need to swim. Seems someone went through and burned or hacked up most of the boats on this side to bits.”

“Oh, _that’s_ not foreboding…”

“For..._boating_, you mean?” Anders smirked awkwardly. The words had just kind of spilled out of his mouth. An old habit. Something he and Solona had done to lighten the mood in the Circle, and taken back up together at Vigil’s Keep. Something he’d almost completely forgotten about. But there was something about being back here...

“Wow…puns?” Alarion was trying hard not to laugh. He didn’t want to encourage this, obviously, though it was a bit of a relief to see the mage almost smiling. “I might actually consider going separate ways if you keep that up!”

They eventually managed to find a small boat that was still in enough of one piece that it could be patched with sections from what remained of the others and function. Alarion offered to row, while Anders sat staring ahead at the foreboding tower in anxious silence. 

Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. What did he need to see? Wasn’t it enough to know that Divine Victoria had declared all mages free to practice their magic openly without fear of being hunted down and imprisoned? That the Inquisitor, herself a former Circle mage from Ostwick, had taken the side of the mages as allies against what remained of the lyrium-crazed Templars? Why did he want so badly to revisit this place, with all its terrible memories?

“Do you want me to help you forget?” Cole sat perched on the prow of the little rowboat. Somehow, Anders realized he was probably the only one who could see him.

“No,” Anders muttered, hoping Alarion couldn’t hear him talking to himself over the sound of the water splashing off the oars.

“Why not? It hurts you to remember, doesn’t it?”

“Because...there are _good_ memories here, too!”

Cole tilted his head curiously at Anders. He could feel the spirit sifting through his mind and his memories. The way Justice used to, except he’d done it from within. “Pain and suffering and friendship and..._love_...in between? Too interwoven to separate out the strands.”

“Yes.” He nodded, willing himself not to break down. Not yet. They weren’t even halfway across the lake yet. He'd tell Alarion to wait outside while he went in and had his moment with all the ghosts of his past.

“I’ll be here,” the spirit whispered as he faded back into the mist that rose from the smooth water all around them. “If you need any help.”

“Thank you.”

He turned back to check on Alarion.

“Almost there…” he said, trying his best not to sound too concerned about Anders’ mumbling and gave an encouraging smile. How bad could an old deserted Circle be? They’d already survived the Fade together, after all. What could be worse than an enormously powerful demon that takes the form of your own worst nightmares?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit distracted by my Origins playthrough with Solona Amell that I've been writing [drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529891) for, but it's all for a good cause as it really let me revisit the Circle in depth again!
> 
> Oh! And also, finding the love letter here in Origins inspired this totally random unimportant section. I’m pretending that Solona and Leliana, in all their wlw solidarity wrote the actual in-game letter themselves to sell to “R” and cover for these precious young lovebirds. 
> 
> Oh, and IDK why, but I guess I’m also head canoning that everyone Solona befriends starts making awful puns...


	5. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Cole take an emotional stroll through Kinloch Hold.

“Anders, are you alright?” Alarion asked as they disembarked and stood staring at the huge doors to the tower which would have looked formidable if they hadn’t been left wide open. It looked as though the place had been sacked. It was impossible to tell if it had been Darkspawn, mages fleeing during the war, or...something worse. Maybe all of the above.

“No. _Yes_, I mean.” He stammered. “But no. I will be…” He trailed off, then turned back toward Alarion. “Sorry! You should wait here. If I’m not back in an hour...”

“What?”

“Then come find me.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to just come with you?”

“Yes.” He forced what he hoped was a reassuring little smile. “It’s fine. I just need to see it all for myself.”

“Okay. But if you’re not back in an hour…?”

Anders nodded, standing up suddenly to his full height. “Feel free to come get me.” And he headed into the tower with an unusual confidence in his gait.

...

He strolled through the entrance, a delighted little smile on his lips. The thought of _him_, a former prisoner here, a problematic little shit at that, just waltzing in through the front door like nothing. Not being dragged by an entire squadron of Templars, no alarm bells ringing, no Knight-Commander threatening to throttle him or senior enchanters tutting their obligatory disapproval at his latest failed escape attempt. He could only imagine how Solona must’ve felt, her characteristic smugness ready to shine in all its glory, when she returned here with the treaties to request aid during the Blight, protected by her Warden status, only to find the place in complete disarray and the whole lot of them in need of rescuing.

_So much for their false promises of safety and security and control_, he thought, with a sort of satisfying vindication.

But the sudden, visceral reaction he felt as soon as he passed the door to the basement below the Tower where he’d spent an entire year in solitary confinement after his next-to-last escape attempt caught him completely by surprise.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d produced two enormous fireballs and flung them at the heavy wooden door. The powerful magic fizzled ineffectually over the ancient wards protecting the door, and he screamed with aggravated rage as he recharged his magic for another pointless assault.

“There is nothing new for you to learn down there…” Cole whispered from somewhere, cutting through his anger. He felt time slow somehow as the spirit seemed to surround him, wrapping around him with a firm but gentle kind of pressure.

“I don’t want to _learn_…I want…vengeance!” he grunted through his smothering presence.

“I…think I know what that’s like.”

“I want to make sure nobody _ever_ has to suffer the way I did.”

“Nobody is left down there. Even the souls once trapped there in glass and in stone have been freed.”

“_I_ am!” Anders cried, trying to push through the spirit to the door so he could kick it down himself.

“No. He is gone. _His_ struggle is over. _That _pain…” But the spirit’s hold on him faltered, and Anders fell to the ground with a heavy thud, just in front of the door.

“Cole?”

“_He_ was…forgotten. Locked away just like you. But he was smaller. And too quiet. And so hungry. I wanted to help, but…I didn’t understand how…until he was already gone.”

“I had no idea,” Anders whispered, somehow understanding the spirit now more than ever before. “Was it here?”

“No. Not here.” Cole shook his head and disappeared again, and time resumed at its normal pace while the sudden blinding anger Anders had felt only moments ago seemed to have dissipated almost entirely. _Almost_.

He glared at the door, knowing that the spirit was right. Knowing it was useless to try and break through, anyway, without a Templar to utter the secret ward-breaking words. He took a few shaky breaths, and then stood up. There were other things he wanted to see here before his hour was up.

He made an urgent beeline toward the records office, where he knew files were kept on every mage that spent any amount of time locked inside the tower. He was on a mission now, not to be distracted by his _own_ suffering, but intent on uncovering as much as he could about someone else’s.

Tearing through the dusty cabinets like a mad man, he ignored the section labelled “Apostates.” He didn’t need to see what was in his file. Anders the Unruly Apprentice, Anders the Apostate, Anders the Abomination, Anders the Chantry Bomber, Murderer of Innocents...he’d heard it all through the years, and rationalized away most of his guilt, accepting exile and alienation as his consequences. And somehow..._he'd_ survived.

Instead, he sought answers about someone who hadn’t. A man who had never done anything to warrant the horrific treatment he’d received from the Templars. With a singular focus, he finally found what he was looking for. The section of the records marked “Transfers.” In a mostly-empty subsection labelled “Kirkwall,” he found Karl’s file.

He’d been prepared to turn himself over to the Templars in Kirkwall if it meant they could be together again in the Gallows because he knew Karl would never run away with him. But he knew the cruelty of the Templars would have never allowed it. They’d separated them as soon as they’d passed their Harrowings. And Karl had gone without a word of protest to Irving or Greagoir, blaming himself and apologizing to Anders. _Apologizing for what?_ For putting _him_ in danger by continuing their relationship. And he imagined he’d shown the same obeisance to his captors in Kirkwall. And yet, he’d still been made Tranquil. Merely because of their...association.

Anders’ hands trembled as he opened the file. A signed copy of the transfer order fell out into his hands. “In collaboration with our sister Circle in Kirkwall…” with Greagoir’s and Irving’s signatures side-by-side, collaborators in the suffering of so many. And Karl’s neat, precise script below. Obedient to a fault, even as he signed off on his own doomed fate.

“Why couldn’t you have fought...just this once?” Anders whispered, a tear plopping loudly onto the shaking parchment.

There were several other letters behind it. Some from Karl promising he was representing Ferelden’s Circle well in spite of the ‘cultural differences’ in Kirkwall’s Circle, but several that stood out in handwriting that was unknown to Anders.

\---

_11 Drakonis, 9:27_

_Ser Greagoir,_

_We have received your transfer from the Circle in Ferelden. He has been settled in to the Gallows and evaluated for his abilities. I must say I do not find him nearly as impressive as you or Irving made him sound in your earlier correspondences, and it feels a bit as though you are merely passing your own problems onto us. Surely you could have made an example out of him within your own Circle to curb this sort of behavior in the future? _

_Nevertheless, your warnings about his prior relationship with another one of your undisciplined mages do not worry me in the least. I imagine we run things a bit tighter on this side of the Waking Sea, with strict penalties for any sort of fraternization between mages._

_I expect you will reciprocate by sending us some of your finest Templar recruits in the future. Being so close to the front lines with the Imperium, we could use all the help we can get. I have yet to find anyone suitable to serve as my Knight-Captain here, so I remain the sole bearer of this sacred duty to lead the fight against the corruption that magic introduces into the hearts of man. Without me here, Kirkwall would surely fall to the mages within a fortnight._

_Be vigilant,_

_Ser Meredith_

_\---_

_5 Bloomingtide, 9:31_

_Ser Greagoir,_

_Thank you for the warning, but again, you seem to underestimate our ability to do our job here in Kirkwall. Ferelden must truly be a lawless Blighted land if your people cannot handle hunting down a single apostate. We have what he wants, and I assure you we have ways of taming even the most difficult mages. If he is in fact a Grey Warden, then let the Grey Wardens come and fetch him after we’ve neutralized him. I doubt there are enough left to spare a rescue mission for a mad apostate deserter. Once we’ve finished with him, they may no longer have any use for him, anyway._

_Ser Cullen is fitting in well, by the way. Your concerns about his readiness to resume his Templar duties seem to have been completely unwarranted, and he has proven to be quite useful to me here as someone who has seen firsthand what is at stake in this ongoing battle we wage against the corrupting influence of magic. I anticipate him rising quickly through the ranks, as he is very committed to his work. _

_Be vigilant,_

_Ser Meredith_

\---

A third note, in a different hand was the last in Karl’s file, and Anders felt the bile rising in his throat as his eyes scanned over it with an unfortunately familiar mix of anger and guilt and heartbreak.

\---

_22 Harvestmere, 9:31_

_Knight-Commander Greagoir,_

_I thought you might want an update about the situation here in Kirkwall. Anders is, it seems, an Abomination, just as you had feared. He and a group of his friends, led by some upstart refugee from Ferelden, showed up to our trap and easily overwhelmed the Templars we had standing guard over Karl in the Chantry. Meredith had previously made him Tranquil, though I am not quite sure what necessitated that extreme measure, but I have to trust it was warranted. Anders, or whatever sort of monster he is now, killed him, along with most of our men who tried to stop him, and then disappeared back into the sewers, where it seems some of the more depraved and destitute citizens of Kirkwall are actually keen to protect him. _

_Kirkwall is strange. It seems like there are so many more apostates running free among the filth and decay of the city. Everything smells like blood. I’m told it’s the iron in the mountain the city was carved out of, and that I’ll get used to it eventually, but it feels less...natural...than that. It’s nothing like Kinloch Hold, which was set apart from the rest of Ferelden, almost like a sanctuary, by comparison. That is, until it was sullied by demons and blood magic. In addition to all of that, the Qunari occupation casts a long shadow of dread over an already dismal place. _

_But I know that I am needed here. I’ve never felt more sure of the necessity of our work._

_I hope that things in Ferelden are finally starting to settle down,_

_Cullen_

\---

“You want to burn it down,” Cole whispered.

“Of course I do...” Anders muttered through gritted teeth as he clenched his fist around the letters. “But then it would be too easy to forget.”

Too easy to forget the reason why he’d fought for so hard for so long. _Why_ he’d partnered with Justice in the first place. And why he’d been willing to kill, and to die for the cause.

Too easy for the rest of Ferelden to forget, as well.

And too easy to forget that even someone like _Cullen_ was capable of growth.

“Hmmm…” Cole seemed to ponder this for a long time. “Sometimes, it _is_ important to remember.”

Anders turned and tried to appreciate the dust and the emptiness that had filled the place. It had been years since any new files had been added, and he tried to take some small comfort in that.

“Cole.”

"Yes.”

“Please. I want Justice to see. Is there some way…?"

“If he is willing...the Veil is thin enough in this place. I can pull it back...for a bit."

"Thank you."

Cole closed his eyes and his golden glow faded away into nothing for a few moments. Anders held his breath in hopeful anticipation. Suddenly a bright blue apparition in full armor appeared where Cole had been.

"ANDERS…"

"Justice?"

"I CANNOT LINGER LONG. ARE YOU IN TROUBLE?"

"No. Do you know where we are?"

"IT APPEARS TO BE THE CIRCLE FROM YOUR MEMORIES. HAVE YOU BEEN RE-CAPTURED BY THE TEMPLARS?!”

“No! I just wanted you to see…all of your hard work. This Circle is empty now. As are most of them, all over Thedas, in fact. Abandoned. No more mages held prisoner. No more Templars…” he trailed off in awe, as if the realization was just hitting him for the first time.

“THEN YOU HAVE NO USE FOR ME HERE.”

“Justice, wait!” He wanted to reach for the spirit and bring him close. The familiar sensation of being one with him was something he suddenly missed very much. But he knew he’d be reaching directly into the Fade. And he wasn’t sure _what_ might happen if he tried to enter it here. This place bore so many irreversible scars both in and out of the Fade, and he didn’t wish to make anymore. “Doesn’t it make you...don’t you _feel_...anything, knowing that we won?”

“I AM A SPIRIT OF _JUSTICE_, ANDERS. THERE ARE ALWAYS MORE INJUSTICES TO FIGHT.”

“Yes, but…” He shook his head with a smile. He knew it was no use trying to convince the spirit to feel the complicated things that mortals felt. But seeing his friend again was nice, at least.

Justice shifted a little, and Anders swore he caught a glimpse of a feather poking out through his shining pauldrons. “I SUPPOSE I AM WHAT YOU MORTALS REFER TO AS…_GLAD_. YES. I THINK I REMEMBER HOW THAT FELT. WHEN YOU HEALED SOMEONE. WHEN YOU SUCCESSFULLY HELPED A FELLOW MAGE TO FREEDOM. YOU WERE RELIEVED. SATISFIED. _VICTORIOUS_…?

Anders smiled, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. “And you feel that now?”

Justice nodded. “THESE ARE TEARS OF GLADNESS? THAT_ I_ AM GLAD?”

“Yes.”

“GOOD.” Justice nodded definitively, and just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he disappeared again, like a curtain had been dropped on this brief glimpse into the Fade.

“Did that help?”

“Yes, Cole. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I’d like to know how the Circle here eventually fell. The last I had heard, the Aequitarians still dominated the politics here. If I recall, Irving remained somewhat committed to preserving the Circle and its subservience to the Templar Order. Did he and Greagoir both attend the Conclave at Haven, hoping to be part of some kind of compromise?”

Cole closed his eyes and disappeared again, but Anders could still hear him. “Let us see…”

He followed the spirit’s voice through the dormitories and the library, past the senior enchanter’s quarters and up through the areas that had previously been forbidden to all but the most senior ranking Templars and mages being escorted under heavy guard to their Harrowings.

He could actually sense Cole’s own apprehension and discomfort as they passed quickly by the stairs up to the Harrowing Chamber, but he seemed to be leading him to Greagoir’s private quarters instead.

“There…” Cole appeared again, pointing at the writing desk in the corner, where a dusty faded letter sat still open on the sparse desk.

\---

_20 Haring, 9:40_

_Greagoir,_

_She’s gone. Sacrificed herself for one of yours, though she fought for our best interests until her dying breath. There will be a funeral. Her son will be there, and I hope you will attend. He does not know, but perhaps now is as good a time as any to meet him? Surely, we can suspend our disagreements and uncertainties about what the future may hold in order to pay our respects to a good woman of faith. _

_Be well,_

_Irving_

\---

“Who…?”

“Faith…” the spirit murmured with a mix of fondness and awe that Anders didn’t quite understand.

“Cole?”

“Compassion.” He pointed to himself as he materialized as a boy sitting on the desk with his legs swinging lazily.

“Yes, I know, but who…?”

“Some people choose to forget.”

“What were you saying, though? Before?”

Cole shrugged. “_I_ don’t mind. As long as I’ve helped.”

“Yes, yes...I mean…” Anders took a deep breath. Communicating with spirits could be exasperating, no matter how much practice he'd had over the years. “What did you _mean_ when you said ‘faith’?”

“Oh! _She_ was Faith. Wynne, you may have called her. Or Faith was her. They were one. And they saved my friends. And many others, as well.”

“Wynne? The senior enchanter? _She_ was…?”

“Her sacrifice mattered to him. Changed him. He left and did not return and the doors were left open.”

“When you say Wynne and Faith ‘were one,’ do you mean...like Justice and me?”

“Yes.” He nodded sadly. “I became Cole, but he did not become me. We were not _really_ one. I was too late.”

“I know the feeling,” Anders sighed.

Cole looked at the letters from Kirkwall he still held clutched tightly in his fist. "You freed him from a worse fate, and then there were so many others. He would have wanted you to be free from all of these regrets as well.”

"I know, but that's just it...he was _always_ such a selfless bastard!” Anders slammed the letters down on Greagoir’s desk. “And it didn’t take a spirit of Generosity or anything to make him like that."

"Who was?" Alarion asked quietly from the door to the study. Apparently, an hour had passed, and Alarion had come to find him, just as he’d promised he would. He’d heard voices and had come prepared to fight off demons or vagabonds or anything in between. But when he’d gotten there, bow drawn and ready, it was just Anders, seemingly shouting at himself.

“Karl,” Anders blurted out, without even turning to look at him. “He was a mage, too. Here in the Circle. But he was transferred to Kirkwall after the Templars found out about us.” He waved the letters at Alarion.

“Is this the person you told me you had killed?”

Alarion could feel Anders’ magic growing angry again, and he could see his fist balled up angrily at his side, and the foci at the end of his staff beginning to glow a bit red. He might have normally taken a step back from a mage who was growing so obviously agitated, but for whatever reason, he felt certain that Anders had no intention of taking his anger out on him. Moreover, he actually felt a compelling need to stay _close_ to him, like someone or something was actually physically pushing him toward him.

“They made him Tranquil, and they used him to lure me back into their custody after I fled the Wardens, an apostate and an abomination, and he begged me to kill him because he said death would be preferable to living the rest of his life cut off from the Fade. Justice took over, and...” he looked down at the ground and his shoulders slumped, all the tension in his body and in his magic suddenly gone, replaced only by sadness and grief.

Alarion reached for his hand then. “I’m so sorry.”

They stood for a moment. Maybe a few moments. And Anders just stared at Alarion’s outstretched hand as if it didn't belong in this world. It was too kind. Too earnest. Too good to be true.

Hawke and the others had understood. They may not all have agreed with what had happened that night (Varric most certainly did not), but they understood that he and Justice had done what they believed they had to do out of mercy. At least he thought they did, since they never questioned him about it or brought it up again, unlike so many other things he’d done in the name of Justice over the years.

But Alarion was the first person to reach out to him in pure, unquestioning sympathy. Even Solona had only really reacted with anger and then her typical defensive cynicism when he told her what had happened to their friend. It was unfortunate, "but not unexpected," she'd said bitterly. Everyone knew that there were consequences for daring to fall in love as a Circle mage.

Except Alarion, apparently, who just looked genuinely heartbroken for him now as he reached out to him, overflowing with compassion.

“I never forgave the Chantry, the Templars…or _myself_ for taking so long to get there. If I’d have been more proactive, or if I’d have been better about hiding our relationship from the Templars in the first place, or better at not getting caught...”

Alarion closed the gap between their hands himself and pressed his thumb firmly into Anders’ palm, grounding him. Stopping him from spiralling any further into his guilt.

"I’m sure you did everything you could," he said as Anders closed his long, lean fingers around his hand reflexively and squeezed.

They stood there for awhile in silence, hands clenched together, neither one willing to let go or daring to move. Anders couldn't really seem to find any more words to defend against Cole's _or_ Alarion's accusations that what had happened wasn't all his fault.

“This is all just to say that I will understand if you change your mind about wanting to go anywhere else with me," he finally muttered.

He looked back up into Alarion’s eyes, searching for the slightest sign of apprehension or fear or disappointment.

“Seriously?” Alarion tugged on his arm, pulling him a little bit closer and meeting his hesitant gaze with defiant admiration. “You’re _seriously_ still going to say that kind of thing to me?”

Anders stared back at him, tears threatening to break free, but before he could look away and mutter anymore self-deprecating nonsense to put some distance between himself and any hope of finding comfort in another person, Alarion pulled him into a hug.

Anders’ eyes grew wide and a whole host of other emotions he hadn’t felt, hadn't allowed himself to feel, in a very long time, began to overwhelm him. He felt the tears begin to flow again, but he didn’t pull away. He _couldn’t_ pull away. He could only grasp desperately at the stiff bronto hide of Alarion’s new armor and try to brace himself as he began to sob against him.

“It’s okay,” Alarion murmured, squeezing him tighter. It felt so familiar, though he was certain the two of them had never embraced like _this_ before.

Anders’ sobs subsided eventually, and he started to reluctantly push Alarion away.

"I'm sorry. I just -- " Alarion apologized, worried he might’ve overstepped some boundary.

Anders shook his head, smiling down at him between tear-stained cheeks. "Don't be."

Alarion reached up to wipe a tear from his face, and Anders couldn’t help himself. He turned his head to kiss Alarion’s fingertips, catching the saltiness of his own tears on his lips. He reached up and grabbed Alarion’s wrist, pulling the rough palm of his hand to his warm, swollen lips, overflowing with gratitude.

Alarion had half a mind to press him up against the cold stone wall of the tower and kiss him like he’d been wanting to for the past week and a half, but thought better of it when he saw the lingering pain still in Anders' eyes. Now was not the time nor the place to act on _those_ particular desires.

"Thank you," Anders whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. “For letting me do this.”

"You don't need to thank _me,_" he mumbled, pulling his hand away regretfully. "And we can take as much time here as you need. It's not like we have any pressing appointments elsewhere."

"Nah…" Anders shrugged, taking a moment to catch his breath. "I’m pretty sure it's haunted." He winked.

Alarion laughed. "By your spirit friends?"

"Some of them…"

Hope. Justice. Faith. _Compassion_, definitely.

But also Rage, Sloth, Pride, and...he was beginning to sense the lingering presence of a powerful wisp of Desire hovering just beyond the Veil. Solona had told him what they'd faced here during the Blight, and he did not wish to reawaken any of _those_ demons.

"We should go."

“If you’re ready.”

Anders nodded, leaving the letter from Irving along with the contents of Karl’s file on Greagoir’s dusty old desk. He didn’t need these things to remember. "Once we're east of here, we should be able to find another entrance to the Deep Roads. I very highly doubt Varric or Cassandra would venture that far away from Orzammar, since neither of them is a Warden or a member of the Legion of the Dead."

"What is 'The Legion of the Dead'?"

"Dwarves, usually casteless, who devote their lives to fighting off the Darkspawn in the Deep Roads, keeping them away from the main settlements and cities. If the Darkspawn are like waves or tides constantly threatening to overrun dwarven civilization, the Legion is like the breakwater…”

"That's poetic. And sort of dismal. Breakwaters erode and give way eventually."

"Yeah, we try not to think about that. So long as the Wardens and the Legion keep recruiting..."

"Sorry," Alarion winced. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

"You see why I left?"

"I assumed it was somehow related to your insistence that you are no good, a danger to everyone around you, and a coward…" he smirked. “Or your dislike of dark and confined spaces…?”

"Yes, well, all of that, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG...if you made it through this chapter, you are a friggin spirit of patience and light. I think this was mostly written for me. Sorry. Anders has just been through so much. He will never forget Karl. Or be fully over it. But I wanted him to get a little bit of closure. And Cole is such a helper. I promise less angst and more cute boyfriends being cute in the future.
> 
> Also...sorry about all the letters. It's a cheap rhetorical device, I know, but I don't have it in me to write whole flashbacks. That's what my other WIPs are for...


	6. Forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Alarion finally head back into the Deep Roads. And run right into some familiar faces...and tentacles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, some gore/tentacle horror/nipples because there's a Broodmother...(hi, everyone! I finally wrote myself into a fic!)...but also, we have KISSING!
> 
> Also, this is the rest of the crossover with figgy's [Chapter 5 of Two Weddings and a Funeral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706413/chapters/50168729), which follows the rest of the crew (and others) from [Dread Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19196272/chapters/45634780) as they prepare for Sera and Dagna's wedding!

As they made their way deeper below the surface in what they hoped was a generally eastward_ish_ direction, forced to walk closer together as they walked around a cave-in, the awkwardly respectful distance between them had been abandoned and their hands just kept..._finding_ each other. The first time was, perhaps, an accident, with embarrassed apologies muttered more to themselves than to each other about the sudden narrowness of the passage or the dark. The second, third, and fourth times…it had gotten much more difficult to pretend, until they were practically holding hands like some lovestruck teenage couple. And when the passage opened back up, neither one of them seemed particularly eager to drift apart again.

“Anders…” Alarion exhaled. He felt like he had been holding his breath since the first clumsy brush of the mage’s fingers.

Anders gripped his staff. “What is it?”

“May I kiss you?”

"Oh...” his voice faltered, and he felt a rush of warm panic surging up from his belly. 

He had thought Alarion had seen a spider or something in the darkness up ahead. He definitely wasn't prepared for _this_. 

“Sorry…” he looked down at the gold thread that lined the cuffs of his robes. It was something to look at, to fix his eyes on as the heat rushed into his face. “I mean...um, I don't see why you would want --"

"A simple yes or a no would be preferable to a lecture about why I shouldn’t want to kiss you,” Alarion said, sounding more impatient than he’d meant to. He took a deep breath, smiled a bit awkwardly, then, in a more gentle tone, “I _do_...want to. Which is why I asked."

Anders stopped muttering, stopped fidgeting with his robe, just stopped and turned to look right at him, a mix of admiration and panicked disbelief in his eyes.

"After everything you've seen and heard about me and my past over the last few days, you would…?"

"Yes, I would," Alarion sighed, exasperated. “I _very much _would, in fact.” 

But he could already feel the moment passing between them. He should’ve been happy with the near hand-holding. He shouldn’t have said a thing and just kept letting their hands crash gently into each other until the rest of them had _maybe_, eventually followed. Someday. But _fasta vass_! He wanted so much more. 

He needed to _know_..."If it's what _you_ want."

"I'm a doomed man." Anders had begun his familiar refrain, and he was beginning to pace again.

Alarion crossed his arms with a defiant smile. "And…?"

"I've got nothing to offer you!"

"Creators! What is it that you think I'm looking for, exactly? Money? The status of a prominent family name or something? An estate?” He laughed. “I’m a fucking _fugitive_! A former spy! And an _elf_...from _Tevinter_!”

Fenris had also been an elf from Tevinter. And a fugitive. Under somewhat different circumstances, granted, but Anders hadn’t realized until now how much Alarion and him had in common. Though the two of them couldn’t have been any less alike in terms of personality, perhaps Fenris had had his own reasons for helping him free Alarion from Skyhold’s dungeons.

"No, well...I don't know!” Anders stopped and his hands flew up in front of him, gesturing first to himself and then to the cold dark stone all around them. “Certainly not _this_ miserable life on the run!”

"Surely you can see that I like you quite a lot, in spite of whatever it is about my company that _you_ find so unappealing,” he grinned.

“I had hoped I was imagining it,” Anders groaned.

Alarion’s rakish smile suddenly vanished, and he looked up at Anders like a dog who’d just been kicked.

_Andraste’s knickerweasels_, that was definitely _not_ what Anders had meant to say. “Er, I mean...I don’t find _you_ unappealing.”

“So are you officially rejecting my advances, or…?” Alarion still looked hurt, but there was confusion and a hint of frustration in his voice now, as well.

“No!” Anders cried out. “No. Not that...I just…”

Alarion stared at the mage’s hands which were twisting and fretting with the long cuffs of his robe now. He remembered the feel of his warming magic coursing through them in the Frostbacks. The way he had laid his hands on the wounds he’d sustained in the Fade, gripping his arm with an assertive, but caring touch. His blessed, healing hands were also his most devastating weapon, as Alarion had seen what he could do with fire on multiple occasions when the green-blue of his healing magic suddenly changed to oranges and reds, yet all Alarion wanted to do was hold them. Hold _him_. _Kiss_ him. Even if it burned.

But his heart sank suddenly again as it occurred to him that almost every time Anders had ever really initiated any sort of contact with him, he had been acting in his capacity as a healer. He was merely his patient. He wasn’t interested in a _romantic_ relationship at all. How could Alarion, who prided himself on his skill in observation of people and their motivations, have been so _stupid_? 

“It’s just a bit…” Anders continued shakily.

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” Alarion muttered, shame burning in his cheeks now that he realized he’d completely misread everything between them up to this point.

“No! I do...I’m just…” Anders reached up and dragged his hands down both sides of his face, pulling at his jaw, trying to unclench it, in the hope that it could somehow help him find and say the right words. “I’m just _scared_, okay!?”

Alarion finally glanced back up at him, guarded hope and hurt in his eyes in equal measure. “Scared?”

“Yes!” He laughed bitterly. “Of _this_. Of you! Well, not really scared of _you_, per se. I haven’t -- I thought...it was just easier to believe --”

“To believe I didn’t _actually_ care about you?”

“Well, yes. _Obviously_! Isn’t it for you?”

Alarion’s face fell again. 

_Yes. It would’ve been._ Now that he thought about it.

With Dorian, he had assumed for months that the two of them were just using each other, that their relationship was simply a mutually-beneficial exchange. Dorian got to scandalize his mother and publicly reject the societal norms he was fighting against in more substantive ways behind-the-scenes and Alarion got enough information to keep the Agents of Fen’Harel happy, while they both enjoyed a companionable working relationship. It was only when he realized that Dorian actually had feelings for him, and that he had developed a fondness for him as well, that things got a bit more complicated. And, ultimately, disastrous.

But the thought hadn’t really occurred to him when it came to his feelings for Anders. He had nothing left to hide from anyone. And his interest in Anders had felt so natural, so honest, so _obvious_. A handsome and compassionate revolutionary who seemed to put all others before himself. Who didn’t seem to play the kinds of games Alarion was used to, games he used to think he was actually pretty good at.

He'd been smitten with him from the very beginning, and not just because he’d saved his life burning ferociously through a pack of wolves from his own personal Nightmare in the Fade. Or any of the other times he’d healed him or rescued him.

But, as Anders had so clearly pointed out, there was no exchange to be had here. Alarion certainly had nothing to offer _him_, either. Other than his fool’s heart. Which, in his relief to be free from the burden of the secrets he’d been keeping for the past few months, or years, even, he’d somehow just left open and defenseless like an idiot.

Anders saw the devastation creeping back across Alarion’s face and wanted nothing more than to make it go away. This was not his intent. How could he explain? “I was once very good at all of this, you know. Flirting, sex, seduction and manipulation...all of it.”

“So I’ve heard,” Alarion murmured, more bitterness than intrigue as he began to try and build up his old well-trained defenses -- _cynicism, use sarcasm, if humor is required. Be more guarded. Stop smiling so much..._the words of his former mentors filled his head while Anders stumbled on with his ‘explanation.’

“But when Justice and I merged, that part of me sort of..._withered away_? It had to. There wasn’t room or time for it. And _Justice_ certainly didn’t approve of me using flirtation and sex and all of that to manipulate people. He didn’t understand...couldn’t really grasp the idea that in many situations, for me, anyway, it had been a matter of survival...”

“Understandable.” Alarion, afterall, had _some_ firsthand experience in all of this as well.

“And now, I just...I’m not sure if I can remember…_how_? To do _this_...I mean. Not just sex. I think I still probably remember how _that_ works,” he laughed nervously. “But a relationship?”

“Anders...” Alarion paused. He was trying not to completely expose the fact that his heart was currently shredded into what felt like a thousand different pieces. He didn’t dare to let himself hope that this was some kind of promise from the mage, but there were still a few things he wished to clarify. “I didn’t know the person you used to be. I may not have even liked him all that much.”

“Yeah, he was a real smart-ass,” Anders snorted. “Had a habit of showing too much skin. And running away from all his problems.”

“Oh, then I probably would have liked him a lot,” Alarion laughed. “But that’s not the point. I’m not asking you to be whoever you were _before_.”

“I know. And I don’t really want to be that person again, either. I’m _not _that person. I didn’t like him very much myself, if I’m being honest. But I guess I’m afraid I might still fall into old habits, you know?”

“The person I've grown irresponsibly fond of is the person you are right now.”

“I’m flattered, but --”

Alarion held up his hand. “If you don’t return those kinds of feelings for me --”

“I_ do_! Please understand...” 

Alarion’s eyebrows shot up in hopeful surprise. But he had to remind himself to be cautious. The past few minutes had been an absolute maelstrom of emotions.

“I’m sorry.” Anders was staring at the ground again. “I guess I just need to figure out how to trust myself. Not to ruin it. Like I tend to do…” he trailed off, before finally looking up at him. “_Maker’s breath_, I’m sorry for being such a whimpering disaster!”

“It’s okay!” Alarion forced himself to say, far too cheerfully, even though he felt like every minute that went by without kissing or touching the mage was becoming more and more unbearable, especially now that Anders had admitted he was interested. 

He_ had _admitted that, right? 

“Anyway, I find your whimpering quite endearing, if you’ll allow me to say so.”

Anders blushed and shook his head, smiling as Alarion beamed back at him. 

It was a start, at least. But before either of them could think of anything else to say or do in the sort of romantic truce that had settled between them, they both heard panting and the sound of something running toward them on four legs in the tunnels ahead.

“Do Darkspawn..._pant_?” Alarion asked, looking suddenly more fearful than Anders had ever seen him.

“Not Darkspawn…” Anders murmured, holding his staff out in front of him and channeling more magic into his magelight to illuminate the tunnel ahead of them. “Not tainted.”

“Are there sub-terranean _wolves_ in the Deep Roads, then?” Alarion reached shakily for his bow and one of the modified arrows Tegrun had given him. His dark vision gave him a slight advantage over Anders at spotting potential foes, but the creature was still around the corner of one of the twisting corridors ahead and with the weird way things echoed down here, it was difficult to know how far or which direction the panting was even coming from.

“Not this far in. At least none that I’ve ever encountered.”

Alarion squinted into the darkness as something finally came into view. “I think it’s just…" He relaxed his draw a little. "...a dog…?”

Anders wrinkled his nose. "A dog? Who would bring a dog down here?"

Solona would. She'd fought hard to keep her beloved mabari with her at Vigil’s Keep and by her side in nearly every battle and adventure since she’d rescued him in the early days of the Blight. “He’s the key to the Cure!” she’d insisted to anyone who dared to question her attachment to the slobbering beast. As soon as she’d left, though, the ‘no pets policy’ had been firmly re-established.

“You would know better than _I_, dear Warden.”

Anders braced himself for the beast to finally reveal itself in the light from his staff.

A dog came bounding toward them with his ears back and his tail between his legs. He didn’t _look_ aggressive, especially as he slowed down in his approach to a cautious, almost crouching crawl.

Alarion lowered his bow and looked curiously at the creature, breathing a small sigh of relief.

"He's probably just...I dunno..lost in the Deep Roads or something? Because _that_ makes sense," Anders grumbled and then reluctantly held his hand out for the dog to sniff. It whined at him, then bounded excitedly around in a full circle, nodding its head back the way it had come.

"Is it...hungry?" Alarion asked.

Anders rolled his eyes. "If we feed him he'll become _our_ responsibility."

Alarion looked amused by the irony in that.

The dog whined again more urgently, and began barking in short, high-pitched yelps as it circled around them and began trying to herd them both down the passage he'd come from.

"I think he wants us to go back that way," Alarion stated what was fairly obvious. 

“And why would we do what he wants?”

“So far, we’ve allowed a disembodied voice that only you could hear and a coin to navigate for us…” he shrugged.

“That’s fair.” Anders nodded, peering into the darkness ahead. “Fine,” he sighed, speaking directly to the dog now, “Lead the way, then, I guess!”

...

“Do you hear that?”

Alarion nodded excitedly. “Fighting…”

“Yeah. And Darkspawn…”

“How can you tell?”

“I can hear them...well, _feel_ them…”

“Oh, right.” He didn’t really understand, but that had never stopped him from trusting the mage before. “So what do we do?”

“Turn around and go the other way…”

"But the dog...he _obviously_ came to get help!" 

Somehow, in the few minutes between being ready to shoot him full of reinforced hide-piercing arrows and now, Alarion had become quite fond of the little mabari they'd decided to follow into an increasingly perilous situation.

"_Or_ he's been trained by Darkspawn to round up lost travelers and bring them to them."

“I didn’t know Darkspawn were capable of such things.”

“We didn’t know they were capable of self-awareness, speech, or basic intelligence, either, when they started their attacks in the outskirts of Amaranthine…”

“I mean since we’re eventually planning on joining up with the Wardens, anyway, wouldn’t it be worth checking out? See if someone needs some help? Get a little practice in? If it’s Wardens, we might be able to ingratiate ourselves to them.”

“It’s something big.” There was more than a hint of fear in Anders’ voice. And familiarity. “A Broodmother, maybe…”

“All the more reason to lend some assistance to whoever is currently stuck fighting it!”

Anders looked at him incredulously. “Do you even _know_ what a Broodmother is?!”

“Not really,” Alarion shrugged. “It certainly doesn’t sound _nice_…?” He smiled back haplessly.

“The Darkspawn keep a few females alive when they make their raids. Then they force feed them tainted flesh until there’s nothing left of whatever they once were. The ones who survive the transformation become these hideously monstrous creatures. Huge piles of flesh and a hundred tentacles and a _thousand _horrifying nipples...I don’t even know _why_ they need all those nipples. It’s just…” He shuddered. “It’s, um...not something _I’d _ever like to see again.”

“What if it’s the Hero of Ferelden? Your _friend_?”

Anders knew he was right. Even if it wasn’t Solona, it was most likely a group of her Wardens down here. He could already sense a couple of them, at least. And it wasn’t like he could just walk away knowing someone was in trouble ahead.

The dog seemed to have taken up Alarion’s approach and was whining softly, his head cocked to the side, pleading with Anders to continue.

“Fine,” he huffed at the dog. “We’ll go see if it’s not completely hopeless.”

The dog barked triumphantly and sprang forward, bounding ahead of them toward the fighting. But they still had to pick their way through the piles of slain genlocks and hatchlings that lined the passages until they were close enough to the fighting to make out individual voices shouting amid the telltale screeches and howling of something large and tainted.

"We need to retreat!" someone called out.

"How? She won't let us go!" a woman shouted back.

A third voice cried out, "I'll distract her!”

“Andraste’s ass…” Anders murmured.

“What?” Alarion asked.

“That’s Hawke’s brother, Carver.”

“I think I recognize the woman’s voice, too. She was at Skyhold…could that be the woman Mae told us about? The Seeker?”

“Yes. Perfect. Great.” Anders turned to head back down the passage. “We should probably leave them to it, then.”

“_Anders_!” Alarion had already taken his bow off his back and was reaching for a handful of the new arrows Tegrun had outfitted him with.

“Do I need to remind you that you’re currently a fugitive, wanted by the Inquisition, and that I blew up a Chantry? If that’s _Seeker_ Cassandra Pentaghast, former Right Hand of the Divine, and advisor to the Inquisition, she’s been looking for _me_ for the past five years and is probably down here looking for _you_ now, too.”

“Maybe she’ll look past all of that if we save her life?” Alarion shrugged. He was hopelessly optimistic for someone who had been trained as a spy after being orphaned by the injustices of Tevinter society.

But he had a point. And of course, there was the possibility that Varric might have come with her, as well. And Anders hadn’t even thought about the fact that they’d have to ingratiate themselves to _Carver_ if they were to join up with the remaining Wardens.

“_Fine_...” Anders took a deep breath, trying to gather up his wits and his magic, while Alarion darted ahead with his new and improved bow already strung and drawn back, almost as eager as the dog to get into the fray. Anders sighed and took off after them both.

The passage opened up to a clearing, a large cave, and in the center sat a Broodmother, her tentacles whipping around as Carver, Cassandra, and another Warden did their best to defend against her relentless attacks.

Anders watched as one of the tentacles knocked Cassandra down and the dog lunged at it, missing it just barely with his powerful jaws. He cast a barrier around them before it could come crashing down on them both. Alarion made good use of one of Tegrun’s modified bolts and his reinforced bow to shoot the tentacle, sending it flying back as it bounced off of Anders’ barrier and allowed Cassandra to stand back up to rejoin the fight with the mabari darting off to attack another one of the Broodmother’s appendages.

Anders cast another barrier around Alarion, and wards around the two Wardens, to keep them from being caught by surprise by anymore tentacles. He noticed then that Carver was attempting to wield Varric’s signature crossbow. He knew the dwarf and his crossbow were inseparable, and his heart began racing as he searched frantically around the cave. _Where was Varric?!_

Finally, wheeling all the way around, he spotted the dwarf behind him, cradling his badly broken arm. Activating Panacea, he strode over and expertly snapped the bone back into place, quite a bit hastier than his usual work in the clinic, as Varric screamed in shock and pain. But he seemed grateful nonetheless once he recognized him and his familiar healing magic, which had begun to do _its_ part to numb the pain and mend the break.

"I've never been so happy to see you, Blondie," he said, shaking his arm a little and flexing his fingers experimentally. 

Anders nodded, before rejoining the fray, and Varric stood up and rushed over to Carver, who had had little luck with Bianca and was happy to pass her back off to him. He hastily moved to higher ground, gathering up as many of the bolts as he could find scattered around the cave along his way and aiming his crossbow at the Broodmother’s face.

Alarion shouted something to Carver and Anders watched in frozen horror while he ran right toward the hideous monster in the center of the cave, dodging its many arms as it tried frantically to stop him. Anders didn’t even notice the tentacle that had shot out of the ground behind him as it began flailing around looking for something to grab hold of. Of course, he’d left _himself_ unprotected by any wards or barriers.

When Alarion reached the Broodmother, he pulled a huge sword out from where it was lodged in her torso, and began scaling her, while Carver, now weaponless, just stood there kicking and punching at her from below like an angry toddler. It was the most Hawke thing Anders had ever seen him do, and if he hadn’t been worried Alarion was about to be eaten, he might’ve allowed a little bit of fondness for the younger Hawke to creep back into his heart.

But like some kind of deranged knight in shining armor, or, luckily, in his case, impenetrable bronto hide, Alarion stood atop the Broodmother’s shoulders and raised the heavy sword up high.

That was the last thing Anders saw before he was wrapped up in one of her arms.

It took all of Alarion’s weight to plunge the massive sword all the way down through her head, but the Broodmother’s entire body shuddered with the grinding, crackling sound of sharpened steel against whatever was holding her together. Alarion jumped to the ground and pulled Carver away, before she could bury them both in her flailing limbs, as her tentacles wrapped frantically around whatever they could grab hold of while the blighted life left her in fits and spumes of dark, inky, foul-smelling ichor.

Alarion threw Carver’s sword to him, and then marched over to where Anders was still caught up in one of the monster’s horrible tentacles, trying to squeeze the life out of him with whatever was left of its own unnatural life. He pulled the dagger out of his belt and hacked at the thing until the mindless muscles and undulating flesh finally gave way, writhing in pieces on the ground. 

Without hesitating, he wrapped his own arms around Anders’ neck and yanked him down into a kiss. 

Alarion’s mouth was hard as it slammed determinedly against his lips. His jaw and the rest of his body were still clenched tight from the fight, but it didn’t matter. Anders’ arms wrapped all the way around his torso, pulling him closer, returning his urgent affections as Alarion desperately pulled himself up to reach more of him.

Lips softened, fingertips that had been dug into Anders’ neck and shoulders relaxed a little and moved further down to his arms, but he squeezed him tight. Not as tight as the Broodmother had, but close. When he eventually pulled his mouth away, his hazel eyes were still burning more fiercely than Anders had ever seen them before.

“Are you okay?!” Alarion seemed to be demanding more than asking, and his tone, the look on his face, the whole way he’d carried himself during the fight...it all stirred so many things deep within Anders. Things he _thought_ had gone dormant years ago.

_Butterflies?_ What was he, _13?!_ He couldn’t help but giggle as relief spread quickly between them, thanks in part to the lingering effects of Panacea and all of the adrenaline rushing out of their bodies now that the Broodmother and her tentacles had finally stopped writhing.

“Yes…” he beamed down at him, finally catching his breath after nearly being squeezed to death twice. “Thanks to _you_!”

Alarion’s eyes went a little softer at Anders’ laughter, and his cheeks bloomed suddenly into a deep crimson. “I’m sorry. I should have asked before I…”

“You can kiss me!” Anders exclaimed, laughing again.

Alarion grinned as his hands settled less forcefully on Anders’ shoulders and he raised himself back up on his tiptoes. He tilted his head a little to the side as he leaned in for another kiss.

Cassandra cleared her throat impatiently, and they both turned, suddenly aware again that they were standing in a cave full of chunks of monster and tainted Darkspawn blood and that their audience consisted of a dog, who was happily gnawing on a dismembered limb, hopefully not from anything too tainted, two Wardens and two Inquisition agents, one of whom was most definitely glaring at them like she was about to declare them both “under arrest!”

The other Warden had extricated himself from another one of the tentacles and Varric had hopped down from the ledge he’d been firing from. Carver just looked pissed that it hadn’t been him who landed the killing blow as he began cleaning his sword with a scrap of leather hanging from his belt.

“Uh...hello,” Alarion said, a bit sheepishly, but still flashing his winningest smile all around.

Varric was staring at the two of them in disbelief. “You were supposed to _disappear_ with the elf, Anders, and live happily ever after…”

“You _knew_?!” Anders groaned. He should’ve known everyone in Kirkwall would’ve been apprised of his plans once he’d arranged passage with Isabela.

“Fenris needed _someone_ to stay behind and keep Hawke from going after you all.” He looked pointedly at Anders. “You know how she hates being left out of things...” 

“Excuse me…?!” Cassandra was staring furiously at Varric.

“Seeker, c’mon...these two just saved our lives!”

“Yes. These _two_ also happen to be two of the most wanted fugitives in Thedas. And again, I find out that you have been withholding information about their whereabouts from me...from the _Inquisition_?!”

Carver laughed to himself, shaking his head, still too busy with his sword to contribute anything else, and Anders turned to scowl at him, while the other Warden frowned at them beneath his impressive beard and mustache and Alarion just shrugged innocently.

“Okay, okay! Everyone calm down...” Varric chuckled. “We just took down a Broodmother! Isn’t that worth celebrating?”

“We should probably be going, actually.” Anders grabbed Alarion’s hand and began pulling him towards the exit.

“Where?” Carver asked, finally looking up from his sword. “Why are you even down here?”

“Nothing...no one...nevermind…” Anders mumbled as he continued out of the cave.

“Maybe you can help us!” Alarion interjected, stopping and turning back to face Carver. “We’re looking for the rest of the Wardens.”

Anders sighed. So much for secrecy. Now Cassandra could march the entire Inquisition into Kal’Hirol and demand their capture. Assuming she even let them go now.

“The rest?” The other Warden asked. “There aren’t too many others…”

“Solona?” Anders asked hopefully, finally turning to Carver. “Your cousin?”

“Ah, yes,” Carver nodded, trying to look far wiser than he was capable of. “I always forget that you two know each other,” he lied. “If you keep heading east, you’ll probably run into her or some of the others who can take you to her. Or another Broodmother. They seem to be popping up about as frequently.”

“We’d join you, but I’ve been summoned to Skyhold,” the other Warden informed them, nodding back at Cassandra.

Anders raised his eyebrows at this. “What does the Inquisition need a Warden for? I thought they made it pretty clear you all were to disappear…?”

“Well, before I was a Warden. Or, rather, before I was a _real_ Warden...hm. It’s actually rather complicated, you see.”

Cassandra let out a disgruntled cough...in _agreement_, it seemed, as the Warden cowed sheepishly at her.

“A wedding. Someone’s getting married. He’s got to walk her down the aisle,” Carver huffed impatiently.

“A..._wedding_? You decided to take on a Broodmother because...you needed to attend a wedding?!” Anders laughed. “And what are _you_, Carver? His plus one?”

“If you hadn’t just saved us…” he muttered.

“Ah, yes! This is the second time I’ve saved you down here, isn’t it?”

“Ha! It was actually your boyfriend here that saved us, though, wasn’t it?” He nodded at Alarion, who nodded back appreciatively. “And I don’t count the first time...”

“You probably _should_. Your sister -- ”

“Don’t you dare say a _word_ about my sister!” He gripped his sword tight, his tone suddenly shifting from playful to threatening.

Varric, who had been doing his best to talk Cassandra down, intervened. “I’m making Carver come along because Hawke is going to be there and she’d never forgive me if I didn’t drag him along for a visit. She’ll probably be pissed I didn’t bring you along, too, but I think you two should probably stay away from Skyhold for awhile.”

“We agree on that, at least.” Anders started to move again for the exit, but now Cassandra stood blocking his way.

She pursed her lips and looked at him, sizing him up with a resigned, but thoroughly disapproving glare. She realized that _nobody_ had any real interest in rehashing the events that had led to the Mage-Templar War, not the Inquisitor, and certainly not the new Divine. Leliana had been quite clear about that. Many had even come to consider Anders a hero for what he’d done to help set things in motion, and since the majority of the Templars had revealed themselves to be largely corrupted beyond redemption when they’d turned their back on the Chantry and allowed red lyrium to poison their ranks, she couldn’t honestly say she disagreed.

She motioned to Alarion. "But what about _him_?" she asked, turning to Varric. “He’s a _spy_...he kidnapped an Inquisition ambassador!”

"Dorian let him go," Varric reminded her. He looked back at the two of them. “Didn’t he?” 

Alarion and Anders both nodded, and Anders glared back at her with a fierce determination as Alarion squeezed his hand.

Cassandra sighed, looking utterly defeated by her own crisis of conscience. "I...thank you both," she said. "For your help. But if I see either one of you again…”

The two of them hurried out of the cave before she could finish her threat. They didn't need to hear the exact terms of the Seeker's forgiveness to appreciate how lucky they were to have it.


End file.
